An End To Innocence
by shadow975
Summary: *Chapter 20 posted* On the field of Cormallen "the weary rested and the hurt were healed." But not all hurts are healed with bandages, and some weariness goes too deep.
1. A Neat Trick

Disclaimers:  
1. I don't own any part of LOTR and I'm certainly making no money from this, but I'm more grateful to Mr. Tolkien than I can say for creating such a rich world that so many people want to engage with it themselves.  
2. I've done a lot of research and learned a lot about firearms and warfare writing this, but if you notice a problem, please let me know.  
3. This is book-based. If you've only seen the movies, then parts of this, especially when we get to Rohan and Helm's Deep, may not fall in line with the story as you know it. Just bear this in mind.  
4. The earlier chapters will be undergoing substantial re-writes, and the later ones will be tweaked. All reviews are appreciated; substantive ones especially welcome.  
5. Trust me. I know I may have an odd premise for this story, but I love the books, and Tolkien's characters, and I'm not going to warp them. OFC, yes; OOC, no.  
  
**An End To Innocence  
  
**** Chapter One: A Neat Trick**  
  
The night air was cool, and damp with the remains of summer humidity. Streetlights, wreathed in mist, made ponds of light half a block apart, which Maggie skirted as she made her way to the Halfway Point Cafe, where she was meeting her teammates. She liked having the lights--someone had finally made some that couldn't be easily shot out--but she was loathe to walk directly beneath them and be spotlighted for anyone to see. The neighborhood she walked through would have been middle class once, except the middle had been abandoned, and now there were only the starving, the barely getting by, and the ultra-rich. The middle class had, for the most part, fallen into the first two groups, and where Maggie lived and worked it wasn't wise to stay too much time in the open at night.  
  
Shouts and breaking glass off to the east, and Maggie paused. Laughter, and a scream cut off. "Fuck." She scowled faintly, glancing at her watch, then loosened one of the Glocks in its holster and moved towards the sounds.  
  
Through an alley, and a block away, she found the source of the trouble: Two Scimitars--easily identifiable by the curved blade painted in white and red on the backs of their dark jackets--clearly drunk, and a girl, not yet out of her teens. Maggie couldn't make out what they were saying, but the thrust was clear enough. The girl was terrified, bloody cut on her cheek and a bruise already rising, her shirt torn, and Maggie drew the pistol and stepped into the light.  
  
"That's enough," she said quietly, her voice carrying on the mist in the air, and the two men turned towards her, their laughter quieting when they saw the weapon. Maggie's heart was hammering.  
  
The larger of the men cocked his head at her as through trying to make out a shadow among shadows, then laughed again. "She's a fuckin' whore, what do you care?"  
  
The girl broke away from the one who'd been holding her, and when he reached for her again Maggie made a sharp sound and he stopped. The girl didn't wait to see what would happen next, grabbing her purse from where it had fallen and taking off down the street.  
  
"Sonuva--_fucking_ hell," snarled as he turned to face Maggie. "Bitch has my money--you gonna get it back for me?"  
  
Maggie shrugged. "Suffer, baby," she murmured. "I'm sure a few dollars more or less isn't going to kill you, and you shouldn'ta been fucking around. Now go on. I've got someplace to be."  
  
More muttered obscenities, but they backed off, and Maggie watched them go, then took a deep breath and leaned against the wall. In all the years she'd been doing this, she'd never gotten used to it, and as she headed back towards the Halfway Point, she wondered whether it was ever, ever going to get any better.  
  
She got to the Halfway Point and found a seat at the bar. She'd worried they might ask her to disarm--sometimes they did. It depended on who was at the door. Tonight it was Grace, who seemed to actually prefer Maggie to come armed. One more person to help keep the rabble under control. In any event, Grace hadn't commented on the weaponry, just let her in.  
  
The bartender was one she didn't recognize. "What can I get you tonight?" he asked with a smile.  
  
"Could I just get a bottled water for now?"  
  
"Sure thing," he said, and turned away just as Maggie felt someone sidle up beside her. She turned, expecting to find one of her teammates, and instead found a man some ten years her junior, gazing at her with a slightly predatory, slightly drunken expression. He looked alarmingly like Steven.  
  
Steven, who had ditched her because she was too old, too tough, and too worried about the state of the world. He just wanted, he said as he left, to have some fucking fun while he still could, and that while fucking her was fun, it wasn't fun enough to make him want stick around if she was going to keep causing trouble. "The world is what it is," he'd said. "Live with it, or get the hell out, but stop trying to change it!"  
  
She turned back to the bar.  
  
"Oh, come on," he said. "Don't do that."  
  
She wasn't entirely sure he was talking to her--she hadn't exactly dressed to impress, and, looked more like a dock worker or a thief trying to keep warm than a woman on the prowl. When she glanced over her shoulder, though, there he still was, looking directly at her. "Don't do what?" she asked.  
  
"I'm harmless," he said, inching a little closer and putting his hand on the back of her chair.  
  
She let the smile reach her lips, but not her eyes. "I'm not," she said, "but I still don't know what I'm not supposed to do."  
  
"Oh," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Not harmless, huh? Wanna show me just how dangerous you can be?"  
  
"No."  
  
He scowled. "You're not very friendly," he said.  
  
"True enough," she answered, and turned back to the bar. After a moment, she felt air where he'd been, and took a breath, relieved. Then he slipped into the seat beside her.  
  
"You don't frighten me," he said.  
  
"I don't want to frighten you," she answered. "I want to sit here, by myself, and wait for my friends."  
  
"I could show you a magic trick while you wait."  
  
"I don't like magic," she said.  
  
The bartender stopped what he was doing and turned to the younger man. "No magic in the Halfway Point," he said. "Strictly against the rules."  
  
"Oh, come on!" he said, outrage in his voice. "You let weapons in'ere, but not wizards?"  
  
"Yes, wizards," said the bartender, "but no wizardry."  
  
"All right, all right," he said, sullen. But when the bartender turned away, he leaned over and said quietly, "Really, I could show you a neat trick. Whaddaya wanna see?"  
  
She sighed. "What do I want to see?" she asked, absentmindedly twisting the cap of the water bottle. "I want to see a world where good actually fights against evil instead of closing its eyes and hoping evil gets bored enough to leave." She felt his hand on her thigh and moved it off. "I want to see a world where honor isn't dead and neither is chivalry," she went on, glancing at his hand pointedly, which was already moving back up onto her thigh, "and where I can make a positive difference," she removed his hand again, "find true love, be a strong person, and still have someone around who wants to protect me instead of trying to get something out of me."  
  
He reached out and cupped the back of her neck, drawing her towards him in what she supposed must pass, in his drunken mind, for a seductive kiss. With a little sigh, she cupped his hand in hers, pressing her fingers to the fleshy pad at the base of his thumb, and twisted, hard. He yelped, suddenly out of his chair and bent at an awkward angle. "I want to see," she said, looking at him, "a world where I don't have to be rude just to make some drunk twenty-six year old stop trying to chat me up in my favorite bar." She let go of his hand and picked up her water, twisting the cap on tight, and stood up to move to another part of the bar.  
  
"'Some drunk twennysix year old,' huh?" he said before she could leave, shaking his arm out. "Huh. Well, I think I can show you all that, sweet cheeks. See how much better it is than a twennysix year old."  
  
And there was a brief pause in everything, as though the universe's transmission had lost signal for just a moment. And then he was gone.  
  
And so was the bar.  
  
And so was the city.  
  
Maggie gasped involuntarily, and staggered backwards into the trunk of a tree, hitting her head sharply. She stood still, scarcely noticing the slight pain, holding her breath, waiting for the world to come back. There was quiet, and the air smelled of wood smoke. It was either dawn or twilight, cold, a blueish sky, and watery light silvering the forest around her. She realized she still had the water with her, and dropped it into one of the big pockets on the side of the cargo pants.  
  
She waited for a long, long moment. Then she said quietly, "Oh. Fuck."  
  
And then voices, not too distant.  
  
"I love Gondor as I love my own life." A man's voice, low, but strong, and fierce. "For generations she has held the freedom of the West in her hands, held it with the blood of her people--of our people! And where have you been, King of Gondor?" Maggie tried to see the speakers, but her view was blocked by thick underbrush. "You," the voice continued, "the one man who above all others should have been caring for Gondor and her people. You will not lead us, and you refuse the weapon that could save us!"  
  
And a second voice, just as fierce. "You know it is impossible. The ring will destroy us all if we use it--our only hope is in its destruction. You know this to be true, yet you persist--"  
  
"In wanting our people to flourish, yes, I don't deny it. In wanting the true king to accept the crown of Gondor or _surrender_ it. But how is the destruction of our one real weapon also our only hope? This is madness!"  
  
"We will _not_ discuss this now, Boromir. You have accepted my leadership--respect it or depart the fellowship for Gondor, and no man will think less of you."  
  
"Aragorn!" But Maggie heard departing footsteps in the dry leaves that covered the ground, then a muffled curse in a language she didn't recognize, and a second set of footsteps following the first.  
  
It was only a moment before she started after them. "These may be the only people around," she muttered, "and I have no fucking clue where I am. I'll be damned if I'll huddle by a tree waiting for some animal to decide I'm a tasty snack."  
  
But when she'd followed them as far as their camp, her courage failed her. How could she approach such a motley crew as this? Two who were clearly men, but the rest? A boy who couldn't have been more than seventeen, as pretty as a girl; a bearded midget--"little people" she'd first been told to call them, then "differently statured," which seemed too much of a mouthful, but mostly what she remembered was a perverted non-sport called "Dwarf bowling" that had been trendy a few years back. And he was carrying what looked like a battle axe, of all things. And four who looked like children but weren't acting like them.  
  
The tension in the group was palpable. Maggie was pretty sure it had to do with the fight she'd overheard--the two men were on opposite sides of the fire, pointedly not looking at each other--but in any event, she knew couldn't walk into that camp, armed or unarmed, and expect a friendly welcome.  
  
But neither could she leave. This was wilderness--there was no sign of anything that looked like it might even one day become a road, and the camp was clearly of people who didn't expect to see civilization for quite a while. So she stayed downwind, out of sight, and waited, watching. The group finished what she now knew was breakfast as the sun started to climb in the sky, and then one of the men called them together, and she recognized the voice as the one the other had called Aragorn.  
  
She couldn't hear what was said, but after a short discussion, one of the children got up and walked into the woods, away from her. The rest started to go about the business of packing up the camp, and Maggie became even more nervous. She had to make herself known before they left. But surely they wouldn't leave before the child came back--child, or whatever it was, for who would let a child wander off into the woods alone? and when did children act so like adults? The three below were busying themselves with tasks no child would have even been permitted to do, and now she saw that even they carried long knives, which on them were like swords.  
  
She was still fidgeting behind her little outcropping of stone, trying to make up her mind what to do, when one of the men returned to the camp, though she didn't recall seeing him leave. It was the one she supposed was Boromir, and he looked sullen. There were a few moments of conversation, and then suddenly the children leapt to their feet and rushed off into the trees, crying out--a word, or a name, she didn't know. Maggie blinked. Barely three breaths later the rest of them were gone as well, and Maggie, slightly panicked, stood up. Then, with no better idea of what to do, she started off in pursuit of Boromir, on the theory that if Aragorn would abandon a whole country, he probably wouldn't give rat's ass about a stranger.  
  
She hadn't gone half a mile when she realized that in the distance were sounds of many people crashing through the forest. It gave her a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach, and she drew one of the pistols and kept running. Ahead, she heard what sounded like an elephant, or the horn of an 18-wheeler, then Boromir's voice yelling "Run! Run!"  
  
She froze in place for what seemed like far too long, the urge to flee fighting the urge to hide. But what then, in either case? Flee where? Hide to emerge and face what? Menace all around, no friends, just herself, the pistols, and two knives. Weapon in hand, heart racing, she sprinted through the forest towards Boromir's voice. All around her she heard the crashing of heavy bodies through the underbrush, and she fought down panic. "No way out but through," she thought, and then she was in an open glade, and in front of her an impossible sight. Boromir, facing off against what seemed to be more than a dozen foes, huge and distinctly not human, behind him the children, knives drawn. As she watched, he was struck by an arrow, faltered, but didn't fall. And she, half a hundred yards away, was unnoticed.  
  
Maggie had no idea what the creatures were he was fighting, nor who was in the right. But he was human, and he was one against far too many, and there was no time for conversation to work out whether this could be solved by diplomatic means--he'd be dead before she could get the first, "now wait a minute here" out of her mouth. She raised the weapon, sighted on a creature with its bow drawn on the man, and without hesitating, fired.  
  
The reaction she got was astonishing. The noise of the Glock was loud even in the noise of battle, but when it fired and the creature she'd aimed at dropped, its arrow flying wild, there was a moment's utter stillness as everyone turned to find the source of the sound.  
  
She took the opportunity to shoot two more--clean shots to the head--and then half a dozen charged her while the rest turned on the man and the children. The thought flickered through her mind that it would have been too much to ask that the sound just frighten these things away.  
  
She kept firing, her aim as true as if she were at the practice range, and the man was not too stunned by her appearance to continue his own fight, slaughtering as many with the sword he wielded as she felled with bullets before she realized, breathless, that the field of battle was clear of enemies. All that remained were the the man, the two children, a dozen or more dead, and the smell of blood and gunfire.  
  
Chest tight, not yet quite giving in to the panic she felt, the weapon hot in her hand, she turned to the wounded man just as he fell to one knee. Suddenly afraid that the arrow had struck something more vital than it looked, or that it was poisoned, she crossed the field to him in a few long strides and dropped to the ground, arriving a scant few seconds ahead of his other companions--dwarf, youth, and man, who approached at speed. He was looking at her, puzzled, when Aragorn knelt beside them.  
  
"Ah, my friend," said Aragorn, slipping his arms around the other man as Boromir faltered. "When the horn of Gondor ceased to blow, I feared we would find you too late."  
  
"Nay," Boromir replied, "nay, I live, and Merry and Pippin as well. But Frodo--where is Frodo?"  
  
"Lie back," said Aragorn, "be still, let me get the poison out."  
  
"Where is the ring bearer?"  
  
"Boromir, lie still..."  
  
"No, Aragorn--"  
  
"Shh, Boromir," pressing him to the ground, "I must get the poison out."  
  
Maggie, who wasn't at all used to this level of bloodshed, got shakily to her feet and walked away a dozen paces, then sat down heavily, feeling queasy and lightheaded. She looked around her at the carnage. It wasn't a bit like at the target range, where the bodies were holographic and just disappeared when you were done. Here, there weren't just bodies, but blood, butchery, creatures with dead eyes open in surprise, wetness on the ground where flesh had been cut from their bones, and then those with neat little holes drilled into their foreheads and opening the backs of their skulls....  
  
She felt her stomach heave, and scrambled for the edge of the trees where she was suddenly and violently ill.  
  
When she was sure nothing more was coming up she rinsed her mouth with water from the bottle in her pocket, spread dirt and leaves over the mess, walked a ways away from it and sat down again, head in hands, listening to the sounds of strangers to be sure they didn't just go off and leave her there.  
  
After a moment the youth came and sat beside her. "You do not appear to be an Orc," he said, and she sensed something joking in his tone.  
  
"Well," she said, "I might be. I don't actually know what one is. Are those Orcs?" and she motioned to the heavy bodies that littered the forest floor.  
  
"Indeed. Though for you to not know...."  
  
She shrugged. "I'm not from around here," she said shakily. "So I really hope y'all are the good guys."  
  
"'Yall'?" he said, perplexed.  
  
"Oh, um. You. You and your friends. 'You all'."  
  
"Ah." He looked thoughtful. "Yes," he said finally. "I think we are the good guys." There was a pause. "I am Legolas."  
  
"Maggie Dunshay," she said. "Nice to meet you." She smiled at him, and was rewarded with a smile in return that she thought could probably have powered half a city block.  
  
"Are you unwell?" he asked, after a moment.  
  
"Uh," she said, "you, um...."  
  
He nodded towards the treeline where she'd been sick. "I saw."  
  
"Well," she said, "it's just that I've never actually killed a person before." She shook her head and smiled slightly. "At least I guess those were people. And I know, it's stupid, things being what they are--the police, the government, everyone fending for himself. But I'm not--not used to it."  
  
Legolas said nothing at first. Then, "I would not have taken you for a warrior, but you have courage, standing in the face of such foes." A pause. "And you saved my friend. It seems if not for you, Boromir would have perished, and the Hobbits been carried to a worse fate."  
  
"Um." She glanced at him sideways. "'Hobbits'?"  
  
He smiled again. "I am not surprised that their name is unfamiliar to you. They have walked out of legend and into the light of day, as have so many, less appealing things." He pointed towards the cluster of people around the fallen soldier. "The small ones are Hobbits."  
  
"So, they're not children? or are they?"  
  
He shook his head. "No, though they have some childlike ways about them. Little people, from the Shire. Not Dwarves, not Elves, not Men, but free folk, and good-hearted. Merry and Pippin, whom you saved when you came to Boromir's aid."  
  
She looked at him, her eyes wide. "'Elves?" she said. "Dwarves? Wait-- what?"  
  
He frowned. "You must indeed be from far away."  
  
"You're--an Elf." She'd noticed the slightly pointy ears, but had thought it was just an attractive birth defect, and had put his strange otherworldliness down to her own shock at an unreal situation.  
  
He shook his head, but clearly in amazement rather than to contradict her. "Is there a part of the world we abandoned so long ago that they do not even know us?" he said, more to himself than to her, but he didn't continue and Maggie didn't pursue it, trying to put the bits of the world into some order that made sense in her mind. Then at last Legolas said, "It seems Boromir was sore beset by enemies, and many of the dead show no sign of either sword wounds nor arrows. And you carry no weapon I know but two knives, still sheathed."  
  
"Mmm." She lifted the gun that was still in her hand and gazed at it with a small smile. "My babies," she said. "They're handy things to have around. They should be--each one cost a mint, and then there are the 17-round magazines, not so cheap either."  
  
He eyed it warily. "So small a thing," he said. "How could it do this?" He gestured to the carnage.  
  
"Amazing, isn't it," she said. "I've often wondered about that myself. How can such a little thing do so much damage?"  
  
He touched it gingerly, but didn't offer to take it. "You do not know your own weapon?" he asked. "I would be loathe to carry something so deadly, not understanding it. What do you call it?" he asked.  
  
"I haven't named them," she said, "though some of my friends have named their weapons. Nothing feels right." She shrugged. "Anyway, it's a Glock 35 semi-automatic pistol."  
  
"Ah," he said, and nodded, clearly not enlightened.  
  
She looked at him. "A pistol. A gun," she said, frowning.  
  
He gazed at her. "Gun?"  
  
"You--you can't tell me you don't know what one is?"  
  
He shook his head.  
  
"Oh my god," she murmured. "Where the hell am I?"  
  
"You are near Parth Galen, on the river Anduin, near Rauros Falls."  
  
She nodded. "Uh-huh. And you don't know what a gun is?"  
  
He shook his head again. "Is it magical?"  
  
"Good lord, no. What it does," she went on, "is propel a bit of metal called a bullet at very high speed. The metal enters the body and does a great deal of damage. And I've got..." she did the math. "I've got thirty- six rounds--bullets--left: two in this magazine, seventeen in the other, and a spare magazine. Then, it's just me, and my kick-ass grappling skills, and my not-quite-so-kick-ass kickboxing skills, and the knives." They were quiet a while, watching Aragorn and Boromir, and at a small distance, the Dwarf and the Hobbits. Then, without planning to, Maggie said, "I am completely lost."  
  
Legolas looked at her, waiting for her to continue.  
  
"I was sitting in a bar, trying to get a wizard to stop chatting me up, and the next thing I knew I was in the woods, listening to those two argue about crown and a ring. I followed them to your camp, thinking maybe y'all could tell me where I am, but you all looked so grim that I didn't want to interrupt. And then there was a meeting and a flurry and then everyone ran off into the woods. I followed Boromir, I don't really know why, and found him about to be killed by about forty-seven of those things. So I shot a bunch of them and he hacked a bunch of them to death and then y'all came and killed a bunch, and--what, did we kill them all or did the rest run off?" She sighed. "I don't know what the hell is going on."  
  
To her surprise, he laughed, but it was such a pleasant sound that she didn't take offense. "Of all of us, at least you confess it."  
  
She chuckled. "Great. So no one knows what's going on?"  
  
"Not as much as we would wish it." He stood and held out his hand to her. "Come, we are not so fearsome now that you have seen our foe, are we?"  
  
She laughed. "Well, you are," she said, "but you're a hell of a lot better than the competition." She took his hand and stood.  
  
Boromir was sitting up, cradled in Aragorn's arms as they approached. "Ah," he said, his voice tired and strained but strong enough, "my unnamed rescuer."  
  
"The lady is Maggie Dunshay," said Legolas. "And these rough men are Aragorn and Boromir; Gimli, Gloin's son; and Merry and Pippin, Hobbits from the Shire."  
  
She smiled. "Nice to meet y'all," she said, before kneeling beside Boromir and gently touching the bandages that covered his wound. "So, you're going to be okay?" she asked. "No more poison?"  
  
"No more poison," said Aragorn. "Our comrade will be well, provided he does not throw himself into battle with half a company of Orcs again."  
  
Boromir chuckled. "I know not what magic you used, lady," he said, "but you have my thanks."  
  
"And mine, and the thanks of us all," said Aragorn, and then cautiously, "But how came you here? we thought these woods deserted of all save us and the enemy."  
  
She heard the wariness in his voice, but didn't know what to do about it, so she told him what she'd told Legolas. "So," she finished, "not only do I not know how I got here, I don't know where 'here' is, or where 'there' was in relation to here, or how to get home, or what to do next, or...." She paused. "Do any of you know what a gun is?"  
  
"Gun?" said Boromir, frowning.  
  
"No, I can't say I do," said Merry.  
  
"A weapon," Legolas explained. "Fierce, though small."  
  
"Like a Hobbit," said Boromir with a smile. "That must be the weapon that made such a great sound, and seemed to do nothing, except when the enemy began to fall."  
  
"And it's totally not magical," Maggie said, "and common as dirt where I'm from." She failed to notice their astonished gazes, and the thoughtful looks on the faces of Boromir, Aragorn, and Gimli. "I'm starting to think I'm really a lot further away from home than is actually possible." She paused. "And I'm really hoping I can come with y'all--with you all--because if I can't, I suspect I'm going to live somewhat longer than will be comfortable, and not nearly as long as I'd assumed I would when I got out of bed this morning."  
  
Boromir's laugh turned quickly to a cough, and he said, "You may live neither longer nor more comfortably if you do go with us, lady," but he smiled at her.  
  
There wasn't much discussion, and she was privy to none of it, but after a few moments Legolas came to her and said, "You will come with us. Though the path is into war and there is no great hope of victory, still, 'tis better to be in good company on such a path than alone."  
  
They pressed on that day, heading for someplace called Rohan, so Aragorn told them, to talk with a king there about getting help for something Maggie wasn't quite clear on. She really didn't understand what was going on, but didn't like to trouble them for an explanation. She figured it'd all become clear in time. What interested her now was how these disparate people treated each other. The Hobbits, Merry and Pippin, were both childlike and clearly well beyond childish years. They stuck close to Boromir, and he seemed as protective towards them as one might be towards children, yet he never condescended to them, nor treated them with anything but respect.  
  
And Boromir... she found herself keeping about seven paces behind him most of the time. She tried to do otherwise, but always drifted back there, not too close, but never far. There was something compelling about him. The passion in his voice when she'd first heard him arguing with Aragorn. And now, the argument behind them and Boromir wounded in battle, they were clearly... well, if not exactly friends, certainly comrades. They walked close, talking quietly from time to time, though Maggie couldn't hear the words. She didn't try very hard, figuring it was as rude to eavesdrop here as anywhere else. But she found herself strangely envious of the bond they clearly shared. They might disagree, they might argue, they might even hate each other in a way, but there was a love and loyalty there that was plain to see.  
  
Once, Boromir dropped back to walk beside her. Neither of them spoke for a while, and she relished sharing a companionable silence with him. The scent of leather and cloves, and the musky odor of sweat made her want to reach over and touch him, but also made such a touch seem unnecessary. Finally, gathering up her nerve, and in part afraid that at any moment he might choose to walk with someone else, or to go talk to Aragorn again, or that something would happen to pull him away from her side, Maggie confessed. "I- -when I first, um. Found myself here, it was in the woods near your camp. Just around dawn." She paused. "I, um. I overheard, you and Aragorn. The... the disagreement you were having." He nodded, but said nothing. "I thought I should tell you," she said. "Y'know. It being not right to know something about someone that they don't know you know."  
  
He nodded again. "You are forthright," he said. "And honest. Admirable traits." They walked a ways further. "You do not wish to know more of the matter you overheard?"  
  
She cocked her head to one side. "Well, sure, I'd like to know more. But it's not really my business, is it?"  
  
He smiled. "And discreet." He was quiet for another dozen steps. "One day I shall tell you all, I suspect," he said, giving her a sideways glance, and a small smile. "I owe you some payment, after all, for my life."  
  
She chuckled. "No, you really don't, you know. I mean," she sought the words, "it's--I mean that's just what you do, right? when you see someone in trouble and you can help?" She looked at him. "It's just what you do. You don't owe me." She smiled. "Though if you wanted to, I dunno, buy me a beer sometime and tell me the story of your life, that'd be okay, and you have incredibly beautiful eyes." She blushed and laughed. "Whoops. Did I say that out loud?"  
  
To her great dismay he was looking at her, and she thought she could just perceive a blush of his own beneath the tanned skin. Then he laughed, a loud, delighted laugh. "Beautiful?" he said, and shook his head. "Beautiful. That word should come from my lips to your ears, lady, not the reverse."  
  
'Shit shit shit,' she thought. 'God, I've fucked it up now, haven't I?' What she said was, "Too forward?" with a smile. "Well, y'know, honest and forthright, that's me all over."  
  
"Nay lady," he said, smiling still. "Not too forward--too generous. 'Beautiful', my eyes? Would that it were so, these eyes that have seen too many evils, some by my own hand."  
  
She hated seeing the smile fade from his lips and his thoughts turn inward, though she had no idea to what sorrow. She let a step bring her closer to his side. "Whatever you've seen," she said softly, "those evils aren't reflected in you. Whatever you've done, you seem a good man to me. And to these people you travel with. Don't take their opinion for nothing." She paused. "Everyone does things they wish they hadn't," she said at last. "It doesn't make us any less--any less human, or any less deserving of love, and hope," she smiled, "and chocolates, and compliments on our beautiful eyes, and good bourbon, and stuff like that."  
  
He smiled at her, for a moment she thought he might speak again, but his eyes were still distant, and they walked on in silence.  
  
They made camp in the twilight. Maggie felt worse than useless, having no provisions herself except for what was in her pockets, nor anything to make camp with, and she sat to one side, not sure what to do. She felt a bit like baggage.  
  
Legolas came and sat beside her.  
  
"I feel a bit like baggage," she said, starting to take things out of her pockets to see what she had. Water, her mobile phone, her binoculars, and she said, "I didn't come prepared for a night in the woods, just for a few drinks at a pub." Then she found the little toiletries case with a small soap, a mini-toothbrush, dental floss, and a travel tube of toothpaste, which she'd tossed into her pocket the last time she'd gone for a recreational fuck with her pal Alex, and a little packet of OB tampons. "Okay, maybe I did," she muttered to herself, quickly tucking the tampons out of sight.  
  
"Do you always carry such powerful weapons when you go drinking?" Legolas asked.  
  
She glanced up in a panic, then remembered the guns and relaxed. 'Like he'd know what tampons are anyway,' she thought to herself. "Um, yes actually, I usually do," she said. "Things aren't very nice where I'm from."  
  
"As in a great many places," he replied. "Lembas," he said, offering her a bit of cake.  
  
"Oo," she said with a smile. "I love cake!"  
  
"Just a bit," he cautioned her. "It is Elvish waybread, and just a small bit makes a good meal." He chuckled to himself, glancing at the Hobbits. "Ask Merry and Pippin what happens when you eat too much."  
  
They sat quietly together for some time, a companionable silence between them. Finally, she said, "Gimli seems nice."  
  
He laughed. "'Nice'? I shall tell him you said so; it is a trait few have accused him of." Another silence, and he said, "But is it really our dour Dwarf of whom you think?"  
  
She looked away, then down, then sideways at the youth, a slight blush creeping across her fair skin. "God, am I so obvious?"  
  
"Seven paces," said Legolas, "except for one conversation that seemed to delight our friend. Even Gimli noticed."  
  
"Oh lord," she muttered, "I really am doomed."  
  
"There is no shame in it," he said. "Boromir is a fine man. It is no surprise you wonder about him, having had his life in your hands."  
  
"'Wonder,'" she said. "Yes, well, that's one way of putting it."  
  
And another long silence before Legolas said softly, "If it helps your thoughts, I have not heard him mention any lover."  
  
Maggie was very glad the twilight had faded into darkness as the full bloom of a blush reddened her face. "Oh," she said, "I couldn't go there. He's... I'm... I mean." She laughed. "As my last boyfriend put it, I'm the tough bitch, not the pretty one."  
  
Legolas leaned close. "Beauty is a small thing compared with valor, courage, and strength. And beauty dwells in those things as well."  
  
She shook her head. "That's not how it works in the stories. In the stories, you also have to have a quick wit and a pure heart and a sharp but charming tongue, and you still have to be so gorgeous you can't walk into the room without everyone falling madly in love with you. And it helps to be rich, or if you're not rich, it's only because you've renounced your inheritance because your family's money came from some nefarious thing like- -like secret government experiments on bunnies. And did I mention that you also have to be fucking gorgeous?" She sighed. "In the stories, the girl's biggest problem is choosing between the two different but equally wonderful men who are crazy about her."  
  
"Then how happy it is that we live in the world," said Legolas, "not in the stories, for who could be all those things, and who could stand the company of one who was?"  
  
Maggie laughed. "Oh," she said, "you are a honey. You can stay. Thank you."  
  
"No thanks deserved for speaking the truth," he said, but smiled.  
  
They sat in silence again for a while, before she saw the silhouette of Aragorn against the failing light as he rose and started towards them. She felt her stomach tighten.  
  
"Maggie," he said, as he sat beside her, and she was grateful that Legolas showed no sign of departing. "It is an unusual name."  
  
"It's short for Margaret," she answered. "Ashley Margaret Dunshay, currently residing at 46-B Kirkwood Lane, New Washington, Maryland."  
  
"I know nothing of these places," he said. "They must be far from here indeed."  
  
She chuckled. "I suspect so."  
  
"And you know not how you came here?"  
  
She shook her head. "Just what I told you."  
  
"And this wizard," Aragorn continued. "He was a stranger to you? You have no knowledge of why he would choose to transport you here, now of all times?"  
  
"Nope," she said. "He wanted to show me a magic trick, and magic isn't allowed in the bar we were at. I just wanted him to go away." She realized she was picking at the wool of her vest and forced her fingers to be still. "He asked me what I wanted to see, and I said something or other that I hoped would shut him up, and he tried to kiss me, and I stopped him--I think I may have hurt his arm--and he said 'well okay', or something like that, and 'poof', here I was."  
  
Aragorn nodded.  
  
"What did you tell him you wanted to see?" asked Legolas.  
  
Maggie thought about it. "Something--something weird. I was... I was thinking of...." She'd been thinking of Steve, but she didn't want to tell them about Steve. "I was thinking of this guy who was mad at me because he thought I was too idealistic," she said at last, "and I was thinking about what a crappy place the world is with everyone just looking out for himself and ignoring the things that are happening." She paused, wondering if it was really important or if Legolas was just curious. They seemed to be waiting for her to continue, though, so she tried to remember. "I think I said something about wanting to see a place where good fought against evil instead of ignoring it, and where honor wasn't dead, or chivalry or something like that, where I could make a--a positive difference, be a strong person. That I wanted to see a world where I didn't have to be rude to drunk twenty-six year olds trying to chat me up in my favorite bar." She paused. "Something like that."  
  
"Would that Gandalf were here," Aragorn said with a sigh.  
  
"It is not unheard of," said Legolas, "for a powerful wizard to do such a thing. Send another to a world not their own. We might find a way to send you back," he said, "if the world does not fall into darkness first."  
  
Maggie watched the glow where Merry was tending the small fire. Aragorn had been reluctant to allow it, fearing that Orcs were still about, but they'd seen no sign of them during their day's trek through the forest, so he had finally relented. The warm glow lit the faces around it--Merry, Pippin, Boromir, Gimli. They looked, she thought, like they were in a painting, the twilight's blue deepening to night, and the reddish flicker from the fire leaving only their faces visible, their bodies merely blue-black shadows. She heard the soft murmur of their voices, occasional laughter. It was comforting, and the jagged contrast between that comfort and the reality-- such as it was--of her situation brought sharp tears to her eyes.  
  
Finally Aragorn spoke again. "And this weapon," he said. "This--what did you call it? Gun?"  
  
"Mm-hmm. A Glock 35, a forty caliber semi-automatic pistol." She hoped her voice didn't sound as thick as it felt, and she rubbed her eyes as though tired, pushing the tears away.  
  
He shook his head. "It is like nothing I know in the world. How does it work?"  
  
She explained it to him as she had to Legolas earlier.  
  
"May I see it?" Aragorn asked.  
  
She held it out to him, saying, "There, don't move that little lever," showing him the safety, "or it could go off and kill someone," and he weighed it in his hand, turning it in what light there was, frowning.  
  
At length he handed it back to her, shaking his head. "If it is not magical," he said quietly, "then perhaps we could forge them ourselves. That could give us a great weapon against the enemy."  
  
"So," she said, "what exactly is this thing y'all are doing, anyway? I mean, clearly there's evil afoot, but, well," she paused. "Well, what's going on? Who do you need guns against?"  
  
She was almost sorry she'd asked, because by the time Aragorn had finished the tale, the night was much colder, the fire was almost out, and it looked like Boromir had already fallen asleep. Gimli stamped over to them just as Aragorn concluded, "so the Ringbearer is gone, and we go to Rohan to speak to King Théoden."  
  
Maggie shook her head. "But I still don't understand. So, there's a dark lord, and a ring, and the ringbearer's gone off with it, but where, and to do what? And if the guy with the ring has left, isn't the party sort of over for the rest of us? What are we--I mean you--going to talk to King Théoden about?"  
  
Aragorn didn't speak, and Maggie didn't press him. She knew he was keeping things from her--he'd said nothing about destroying the ring, and she didn't want to tell him now about overhearing his earlier argument. She wasn't a bit sure what he would do, but she knew she'd have to tell him sometime--maybe Boromir already had. She just didn't want to do it right then, in the dark, with the Legolas and Gimli right there.  
  
Gimli patted her on the shoulder. "Do not trouble yourself about it, lady. It's time you got some sleep." He turned to Aragorn. "I shall take first watch, Merry and Pippin the second, and if you're agreeable, you and Legolas take third and fourth. Boromir should rest, I think, and I've told him it's sleep or I'll send him to sleep myself." Gimli frowned. "He does not complain, but the wound hurts him."  
  
"I can take a watch," said Maggie, but to her complete lack of surprise, they dismissed the notion.  
  
"You are not familiar with this world, and the sounds of it," said Legolas, and the others agreed.  
  
"And you're still adjusting to being not in your own world, I'd wager," Gimli added.  
  
"We have enough watchers to see us through the night with ease," said Aragorn. "What, not two hours apiece--any more and we shall be too rested when we arrive at Rohan; they would never believe our sad tale." He smiled at her. "You rest. We have a long road ahead."  
  
She nodded, knowing that the other reason was 'and we've no bloody clue who you are or why you're here, and we don't trust you one little bit,' and started to get up when Gimli said, "Here, you'll freeze with no more than what you've got on. Boromir bade me bring you his cloak." He handed her a heavy, folded cloth and she felt her heart beat faster, and was irritated by how quickly the warmth spread from her heart downwards. 'Good lord,' she thought to herself, 'it's just a cloak, get a grip.' "But," she said aloud, "what about him? My sweaters and my vest are pretty cozy, and I'm not injured."  
  
Gimli chuckled. "Among us we have cover enough to keep us all from the elements--don't you worry, lady, the wounded soldier will sleep well enough."  
  
She smiled. "Thank you," she said. "All of you," looking around at them. "Really."  
  
"Sleep well," said Aragorn with a small smile.  
  
She picked her way down to where the others were, and spent a moment dithering over just how close she could get to Boromir without being any more obvious than she'd already been. Finally she decided 'not at all', and picked a spot across the fire from him. Unfolding the cloak she wrapped it around herself, and it smelled of leather, cloves, and warm skin. She lay down on the ground and gazed across the dying embers at Boromir's sleeping face, wishing she had the courage, or the lack of sense, to go over to him and just curl her body around him, but instead she closed her eyes and slept, wrapped in his cloak and his scent. 


	2. Distant Lightning

Disclaimers:  
1. I don't own any part of LOTR and I'm certainly making no money from this, but I'm more grateful to Mr. Tolkien than I can say for creating such a rich world that so many people want to engage with it themselves.  
2. I've done a lot of research and learned a lot about firearms and warfare writing this, but if you notice a problem, please let me know.  
3. This is book-based. If you've only seen the movies, then parts of this, especially when we get to Rohan and Helm's Deep, may not fall in line with the story as you know it. Just bear this in mind.  
4. The earlier chapters will be undergoing substantial re-writes, and the later ones will be tweaked. All reviews are appreciated; substantive ones especially welcome.  
5. Trust me. I know I may have an odd premise for this story, but I love the books, and Tolkien's characters, and I'm not going to warp them. OFC, yes; OOC, no.  
**  
An End To Innocence  
  
Chapter Two: Distant Lightning**  
  
In a dream, she ran for what seemed like hours, frantic noise all around her, the horn trumpeting Boromir's distress in the distance, getting no nearer. And then she was in the clearing. Orcs, their weapons dripping gore, were almost upon Boromir, from whose chest protruded not one, but many black-feathered arrows, and the Hobbits had drawn their long knives in meager defense. She raised the Glock as though in molasses, the creatures swarming towards her, towards her friends. She began firing. Blood filled her vision, and she could feel the hot wetness as their gore soaked her hands, her face, covered her weapon, soaked the ground she stood on. She heard the meaty thud of each bullet into flesh, heard their screams, saw them falling to the ground with the backs of their heads torn off. She kept firing, and they kept falling, and kept coming, until the ground beneath her was a bloody swamp, and she began sinking. Try as she might, she couldn't pull her feet out of the quagmire, and panic rose in her like a tidal wave. She heard someone screaming her name, over and over, and realized it was the voices of the Orcs she'd killed, beneath her and around her, calling out to her, their dead eyes open in surprise, and she was sinking slowly into the wetness that her weapon had made of their bodies. She kept trying to scream, but her voice wouldn't work, and she woke to darkness, her heart racing. She couldn't place herself in the world. It was cold, stony ground beneath her, stars peeking through the trees above. Her heartbeat began to slow as she remembered where she was. Across the embers of the fire she saw Boromir's face, peaceful in sleep. Aragorn's figure was silhouetted against the sky where he sat, knees drawn up, on an outcropping of rock at the edge of camp. Third watch, then. She lay for a long time, unable to sleep, still hearing the sound of bullets thudding into flesh.  
  
When she woke again it was early, before dawn, and she saw Legolas standing at the edge of their camp, alert, but relaxed. As quietly as she could, she got to her feet, pulling Boromir's cloak around her against the chill air, and picked her way over to the Elf.  
  
"Good morning, lady," he said in a soft voice.  
  
"Good morning." She paused, looking around. "Listen," she said finally, "this is a little embarrassing, but, well. I mean." He gazed at her expectantly. "Well, where would a girl go to wash up, and... other stuff, around here?" She smiled a half smile.  
  
"Ah." Legolas considered. "I do not think you should go far alone," he said, and glanced around. "But here--I will guard the passage for you to that boulder, if that's privacy enough."  
  
She smiled. "Plenty," she said, and made her way to the almost-secluded space behind the boulder he'd pointed to. "No one ever talks about this stuff in the stories," she thought to herself as she went about her business. "It's like no one ever has to pee. Damn them." She finished up, a little annoyed by the primitiveness of her situation, and wished for something to wash her hands with, then spotted a wide trickle of water seeping down a crack in the stone. "Good enough," she said, and with the soap from the toiletries case she washed her hands. She decided against using the water to brush her teeth, not knowing what might be in it, but she splashed her face, and used a dollop of the toothpaste anyway and did the best she could without rinsing. Then, after thinking about it for a moment, she wet her chin-length dark hair as well as she could with her hands and shook out the excess water like a spaniel. "I'll be gloriously beautiful today," she thought regretfully, combing her hair with her fingers. She knew she cleaned up all right when she had the opportunity-- she wasn't quite as unlovely as she pretended, though no one would mistake her for a beauty--but wetting her hair in a trickle of water from a rock in the middle of the forest didn't really count as cleaning up.  
  
"Oh well," she muttered, and she headed back to camp, taking comfort in the fact that none of them were likely to do any better, and if they did, she could ask them how.  
  
By then, others were stirring. Merry was in the process of building up the small fire, Boromir letting Gimli check his bandages, and Aragorn was a little ways away, standing on the same smooth outcropping of stone as he'd taken his watch on and looking away from the camp. She cleared her throat as she came up behind him so as not to startle him, and he glanced at her as she stepped up onto the stone beside him. "Good morning," he said.  
  
"Good morning." She gazed off in the direction he was looking, where the first light of the sun was brightening the horizon. The trees thinned some ways off in the opposite direction, and she could see rolling hills in the distance beyond them. "It's so beautiful here," she said, her voice soft. He didn't answer, and--though she knew it was probably her imagination--he seemed somehow expectant.  
  
"I should tell you," she began at last. "Well, I should have told you a lot earlier, but I was scared, and there was never a really good opportunity. I overheard you yesterday morning arguing with Boromir in the woods." He still didn't say anything, so she continued. "I heard the part about destroying the ring," she said quietly. "Since you didn't tell me that part when you were telling me what's going on, I thought I should mention that I knew."  
  
"It matters little," he said, "but it is good you admitted it." Her stomach tightened at his choice of words, and he turned to look at her. "I allowed you to join us in order to keep you close at hand. If you were indeed a spy for the enemy, I believed it better to have you with us than to turn you away where you could follow and wreak mischief at your will."  
  
She nodded, not sure what to say. The only thing that sprang to mind was, 'Well, you could have killed me,' but she didn't really feel like encouraging that line of thinking.  
  
"When Boromir told me that you had overheard us, I wondered if you would come to me yourself," he said.  
  
So he had told him. Not surprising. "So, does that mean you don't think I'm a spy?"  
  
He chuckled and shook his head. "It means I am still uncertain of you, but that if you are a spy, you seem neither stupid nor careless."  
  
She laughed. "Well, okay," she said after a moment, "but if I'm a spy, then why didn't those guys who tried to kill Boromir have weapons like mine? Wouldn't this dark lord guy want to arm his soldiers as well as his spies? And if he couldn't, why would he send a spy right to you who could give you one of them and let you figure out how to make them yourself?"  
  
He cocked an eyebrow and she thought he almost smiled. "I have no answer," he said at last, "except perhaps an excess of cleverness--or a dearth of it- -on the part of the enemy."  
  
They reached the edge of the woods by mid-day and set out across the hills, heading towards Rohan. Maggie had taken the cord from her binoculars and used it to make a snug packet out of her folded sheepskin vest, tucking the arm warmers into it, and had attached the whole thing to her gun belt like a little pack. Aragorn had satisfied himself that Boromir's wound was healing clean of infection, and Maggie had a feeling that as cheerful as the Hobbits were, the rest of the company chafed to be moving more quickly. She jogged up to walk beside Aragorn, and after a while said, "We're not making as good time as you'd like, are we."  
  
He hesitated before speaking. "It's a long road, and we have the Hobbits and our injured companion to consider."  
  
She nodded. "Well, as long as you're not slowing on my account. I'm tougher than I look, you know."  
  
"I am certain that you are," he replied, and she detected irritation in his usually calm voice, "but can you run half a day without stopping?"  
  
"Run?" she said. "No, but I can jog for a hell of a long time. I don't know if I could do it for half a day, but there's one good way to find out."  
  
After a quick conference with the others they stopped for a brief lunch, then started off again, dog-trotting. Aragorn was in front, then the Hobbits and Boromir, Maggie, Gimli, and Legolas in the rear. Maggie got into the rhythm of it quickly, felt her breathing fall into the familiar pattern, and let her mind drift and start counting her steps, clearing it of all thought. She liked this. It was a comforting, hypnotic activity, and the miles flowed past. They shared Lembas rather than stop, so that by nightfall they were beyond sight of the forest and in the rocky lands east of Rohan. When morning came, though, Maggie felt every muscle in her body. It hurt to move. Her feet hurt. Her back hurt. Her legs were sore, her butt was sore, and none of her joints seemed to want to bend. But after a short breakfast, off they went, and after an hour or so of pain, her muscles loosened up and she decided she probably wasn't going to die--or, worse, beg to stop--after all.  
  
Another day and a night passed like that, and early in the morning of the third day they came to the top of a hill, and Aragorn stopped. Legolas trotted up to stand beside him, and together they looked down into a green valley, where Maggie could see what looked like a ragged line of dots, moving their way. She pulled the binoculars from her pocket and raised them to her eyes, found the dots and focused just as Legolas said, "Riders."  
  
She saw them now, tall men with spears, helms glinting in the sunlight. "They look serious," she said, still watching them, not seeing the looks she was getting from the others.  
  
"What manner of thing is that?" said Gimli.  
  
"Hmm?" She lowered the binoculars and looked at him. "Oh--binoculars. Like-- like a telescope. Only smaller, and double." He didn't look enlightened. "Here," she said, kneeling down next to him. "Just look through here," and handed him the device.  
  
He put them to his eyes, and then smiled. "Aye, Riders indeed," he said. "Why, I can make out the very hairs of their beards."  
  
"Who are they?" asked Maggie.  
  
"Riders of the Mark," said Boromir. "Riders of Rohan."  
  
Without explanation, Aragorn and Boromir started down the hill towards the column of men, and the others followed. As they trotted across the grassy plain, Maggie saw the column turn and come towards them, and when they were close, Aragorn stopped, stopping the company, as the column of riders circled 'round them in a wide ring until they were surrounded.  
  
One rider urged his mount forward, until his spear was almost at Aragorn's breast. "Who are you, and how come you to travel in our lands without leave of King Théoden?"  
  
Boromir stepped closer, and raised his eyes to the rider's. "Éomer," he said gently, "has it been so long? Do you not know me?"  
  
The rider's eyes narrowed, and then he smiled and leapt from his mount, reaching out to clasp Boromir's hand. "Boromir, too long have you been away. Your horse returned riderless and we feared the worst."  
  
"I yet live," Boromir said, "thanks to good companions."  
  
"And who are your companions?" asked Éomer, "They do not seem," he said, looking from one to the next, "to be soldiers of Gondor."  
  
"Aye, no," said Boromir with a chuckle, "that they're not, though worthy warriors all." He introduced them, one after the other, but Maggie was tired, and once she'd stopped moving, her muscles had the chance to start complaining again. While the Men continued to talk, she sat down wearily beside Merry and Pippin.  
  
"Do you know what's going on?" she asked Pippin.  
  
He shook his head. "They seem friendly enough now, though," he said. "And I know Strider wants to talk to King Théoden about preparing for war." He paused. "I think he wants to make weapons like the ones you carry," he said.  
  
Maggie shook her head. "I don't understand. I mean," and she lowered her voice to a whisper, "if your friend's gone off to destroy that thing, isn't that--doesn't that mean there won't be a war? and if he doesn't manage it, doesn't that mean that pretty much everything is doomed? Why go to all that trouble?"  
  
Pippin shrugged. "I suppose one can't give up trying, even if it looks hopeless."  
  
"I don't know," she said. "They... They're not lovely things," she said finally. "They may cause more trouble than they're worth."  
  
"They seem like just a different sort of arrow to me," said Merry. "Nothing to fear in the hands of your friends, terrible in the hands of your foes, and harmless enough if you just don't touch them."  
  
Maggie didn't say anything, but her head was swimming. Visions of the squalor back home, of having to go armed every time she stepped out of her house, of the Orcs she'd killed and the blood and gore that had soaked the grass. Visions of what would have happened to Boromir if she hadn't been there. Maybe he'd have lived, but she doubted it. And were they worse than Legolas' bow? Either weapon was deadly. She'd called them her babies, said they were handy things to have around, and they were, and she did love them.  
  
But if she'd never had them? She tried to remember what it was like when she was a child, before she'd learned to shoot, before she'd found it necessary. Had it ever been necessary, she wondered, or had it just seemed so? What would her life have been like if she'd never seen a gun? And what was it to be like now, after she'd killed? Not an animal, she knew. An enemy, yes, and she'd learned much about them in the few days she'd traveled with the company. Enough to know that although they were the enemy, although they were ruthless and cruel, they were sentient. What did it mean, to her, to kill them? What would it mean to give weapons like these to people who'd never had them, who showed no signs of developing them? Was it the right thing to do? would they be saved, or just moving towards a different destruction?  
  
"My head hurts," she muttered finally, giving up trying to figure it out. After all, it wasn't like she could stop them from taking the weapons if they chose to. Sure, they were honorable men, so they probably wouldn't, but if they did, there was no way she'd kill them over it, and however good her hand-to-hand skills were, she wasn't a bit sure she could defeat even wounded Boromir, to say nothing of him and Aragorn together, if they really wanted to take the damned guns. And even if she did, well, what then? Two falls out of three? 'Yeah, right,' she thought. 'No, if it comes to that, they can pretty much do what they like.'  
  
That night was spent in the house of King Théoden. Éomer brought them to his King, who welcomed them, but then Aragorn, Boromir and the rest went behind closed doors with the King while Maggie was shown to a bedchamber. She understood--Aragorn still didn't trust her--but it galled her, even while she was grateful not to have to go and listen to more things she figured she probably wouldn't understand. She sat on the bed and unstrapped her guns, took off her gunbelt, and laid it out in front of her on the bed, contemplating the weapons. "Such small things," she said quietly. "Such small things to cause so much damage." She remembered the look of shock on the face of the second Orc she'd shot, and the sound of his body hitting the leaves, the hard ground beneath. She remembered he'd fallen on his own arm, twisted at an awkward angle. She tried to recall whether she'd seen any of them slain by arrows or swords--she knew many had been. But she could only see the ones she'd killed.  
  
She sighed, wishing she had her cleaning kit with her, but she really hadn't expected to be gone so long. She looked at the guns for a while, wondering if there were some way to clean them without the kit, then decided it'd be all right to leave it for now. She looked around for someplace safe to stow them, finally deciding on the top drawer of an ornately carved wardrobe. When she'd shut them away she returned to the bed and was about to decide to take a nap when there was a light tap at the door. "Come in," she said, startled.  
  
A woman opened the door and said in a soft voice, "I've prepared a bath for you, lady."  
  
Maggie let out a little bleat of delight. "Oh! Oh, you're wonderful. You're my hero."  
  
She soaked in the tub until the water turned tepid and her fingers and toes pruned up, then passively let the woman, whose name she had discovered was Ríma, towel her off. Ríma had seemed so matter-of-fact about it that Maggie felt she'd be more embarrassed to ask her to stop. "Your clothes are being cleaned," Ríma said as she brought Maggie a grey gown of some fabric that felt almost like silk, but somehow not quite, and Maggie let Ríma help her into it.  
  
"It's beautiful," she said, looking at herself in the long mirror. "Listen," she said, turning to Ríma, "I can't tell you how grateful I am, for the bath, and the dress, and--and for washing my clothes, and, god, just for being so nice."  
  
Ríma smiled. "We try to be hospitable."  
  
"Um. Do you know if my, um, companions are still talking with King Théoden?" she asked after a moment.  
  
She nodded, and started towards the door of the bath chamber. Maggie followed. "I expect they'll be some time," she said. "It appears another has joined them--Gandalf, whom the King calls Stormcrow, and whom your friends had thought lost."  
  
Startled, Maggie said "Wait--he's here?" Ríma nodded. "Huh. Go figure."  
  
Ríma took Maggie back to her room, and promised to come back and get her for dinner, or when the King had finished with her companions. Maggie lay down on the bed and closed her eyes gratefully; within minutes she was asleep.  
  
Greg, Mira, Paul, Jack, and Maggie were in the gym, training. She was rolling with Jack, his weight heavy, and they were laughing about something. Beside them Greg and Paul were practicing take-downs, and Mira was coaching all four of them. "Maggie, watch that arm! Come on, where are your hands supposed to be? Greg, you've got to come lower, then pop up hard- -don't worry about hurting him, he's tough." Maggie got her foot inside Jack's leg, swept him up and over, laughing, rolled and took the mount, and around them the forest began to darken and she felt strong hands gripping her arms from behind, hauling her to her feet. Jack scrambled up and lashed out with a kick that caught her thigh and she gasped, and behind her Aragorn whispered in her ear, "do you think to destroy us so easily?" The Orc that had been Jack faced her and grimaced, then grinned, and held a knife before her eyes. The air smelled of wood smoke. "You bring great evil here," Aragorn whispered, and she pressed back against him, away from that knife, away from the Orc with the neat little hole drilled in his forehead, holding her breath, and woke with a start to the sound of someone tapping on her door.  
  
"My lady?" Ríma's voice was muffled through the heavy wood.  
  
"Yes," she said, catching her breath. "Come in."  
  
The door opened. "I didn't want to wake you," she said.  
  
"Oh, it's okay," said Maggie. "Really."  
  
Ríma turned, listening to someone Maggie couldn't see, nodded, and then turned back. "My lady, lord Boromir wishes to speak with you."  
  
Maggie blinked, then said, "Oh. Um, sure. I--" and then Ríma slipped quietly away and Boromir stepped into Maggie's room. She sat up. "Hi," she said, and ran her hands through her hair. "Sorry, I'm a little groggy. I was napping."  
  
"We are all weary," he replied. "And I'm sorry to disturb you -"  
  
"No no," she said, "that's fine." She smiled. "It's nice to see you. Survived the King. Come on in," she said, and motioned him to the chair by the window.  
  
He stepped over to it, but stood looking out at the hills of Rohan. "'Tis beautiful land," he said. "Very like to Gondor."  
  
"You miss your home," she said.  
  
"Aye. Minas Tirith." There was a long silence, and she watched him looking out the window. No longer in the travel-stained leather, apparently he too was having his clothes cleaned, and he wore instead a grey tunic and pale breeches, soft boots, his hair shining in the warm light of early evening. "Well," he said, turning to her and sitting at last, "no more than you, I'd wager."  
  
She shrugged. "My friends, I guess. But--well, this place has its charms too, even with all the badness."  
  
"Ríma said she told you of the wizard Gandalf's reappearance. It seems he is of sturdier stuff than we imagined," he said with a smile.  
  
"Yeah," she answered, "I was glad to hear it. I know y'all must be ecstatic."  
  
"Indeed," he said. He glanced at his hands, which were lacing their fingers together as if of their own accord. "We told him of your ... difficulty. That you have been torn from your own world."  
  
"Ah." She nodded. "What did he say?"  
  
"Only that he may be able to send you home, one day, but not soon. Too much is required of him now." He looked at her, his gaze serious. "I am sorry."  
  
"Oh," she said, smiling, "don't be. If I left now, I'd never know how it all turned out."  
  
He laughed. "You are a strange creature," he said, shaking his head.  
  
They sat quietly a moment. "Boromir," she said.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
She glanced up, startled. "Oh," she said. "I didn't--mean." She blushed. "I like saying your name," she said. "That's all." Then brightly, "So how's the hurt shoulder?"  
  
He rolled it forward and back once, and said, "Healing well, I think. I'm grateful the wound is in my left shoulder; I can still wield a sword. There will be much need for soldiers in the time ahead." Another pause. "The weapons you brought with you," he said. "The guns." His gaze was piercing. "They seem more fearsome than any weapon I know. Moreso than arrows, which often require many strikes to kill a foe, and moreso than swords, which are slow against a skilled warrior and which put the wielder in too close contact with his enemy. You slew as many Orcs with one small weapon as I or Aragorn or Legolas, and yet you never came near the enemy."  
  
"It seemed near to me," she said in a low voice.  
  
"Indeed," he said quickly, "I don't doubt it, nor do I question your bravery."  
  
"Oh I know," she said, giving him what she hoped was a reassuring glance. "It's just...." She shook her head. "Go on," she said. "You were saying?"  
  
"Aragorn and I have spoken long about this, and we ... we ask that you surrender one of them to us, to send to Dwarven metal smiths so they might see if they can re-create such a weapon, if not identical, then similar in function and effect."  
  
She didn't speak for a long moment. "Boromir," she said at last, "I don't know--I'm no soldier, I don't know what you deal with every day, I don't know what's right for you, but I'm not sure you know what you're asking for."  
  
"Perhaps not," he replied, "yet I do ask."  
  
Shaking her head she stood, and paced across the room, her back to him. "You don't know," she said, "what kinds of really awful things are going on in my world, and a lot of it is because of these kinds of weapons. People dying every day--people who shouldn't."  
  
She heard him stand and cross the room, felt him behind her. "Lady," he said, "people here are dying now. People who shouldn't." She was silent. "If these weapons could save them," he went on, then paused, put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. She looked into his eyes and felt like she was looking into a distant lightning storm, and felt her skin shiver. "If these weapons could save them, must not we try?" 


	3. Pride Is A Cold Companion

I don't own any part of LOTR and I'm certainly making no money from this, but I'm more grateful to Mr. Tolkien than I can say for creating such a rich world that so many people want to engage with it themselves. [See previous chapters for other disclaimers.] 

**An End To Innocence**

**Chapter Three: Pride Is A Cold Companion**

Maggie felt herself trembling under his gaze, and she looked away, resisting the urge to press close and feel his arms go around her, as she knew they would. It would be so easy. Just relax into him, give him what he wanted, give him anything he wanted. Instead, she said softly, "I just don't know if - if it'd just be a new and different kind of doom."

"Indeed, you do not," he said, his voice equally soft. "In the shadow of what we know comes, why are you so unwilling to chance that it will not be?" His hands became gentle on her arms, not gripping any longer, but holding. She took the opportunity to pull away from him, away from that gaze, and crossed the room to the window, turning her back to him again. "You...you fear your own weapons," he said in sudden realization, surprise apparent in his voice. "You needn't," and she choked back a derisive laugh. "Respect their power, yes," he went on, and she heard him take a step towards her, "as you'd respect the power of a sword, or a bow, or any other thing, but do not _fear_ them. They are tools, like any other."

She turned on him. "Tools?" she said, incredulous. "Did you see what those tools did?"

"Yes," he said sharply, "I saw, as I see you wake from nightmares each night, as I see you gaze into shadows as though you'll find some answer there to a question you do not ask. Do you think," he said, striding towards her, and she backed away from him until she stood with her shoulders pressed to the wall, "that the enemies I've killed with my sword are less dead than the enemies you killed with a bit of metal," his voice almost a snarl, "opening in their flesh like a deadly blossom?" She pressed back towards the wall, not afraid of him, but wanting to get away from the anger she saw in his face. "Do you think," he said, his hands clenched in fists on the cool wall to either side of her now, as he leaned in close, "that they died easier? That their deaths were more noble because I cut into their bodies with a steel blade instead of opening them with a flower of steel?" In his eyes the lightning was no longer distant. "Do you think," he said, his voice a harsh whisper as he bit off each word, "that soldiers do not wake from nightmares in _every_ world?"

Her voice shook when she answered. "I don't want those nightmares to be because of something I brought."

He smiled, a grim, bitter smile that reached his eyes like wormwood. "When you've slain someone with the edge of a blade," he said, "felt them open beneath you like meat and seen the life drain from their eyes as you work your steel loose from bone, come and tell me then whose dreams are easier to bear." He paused, and shook his head. "Our soldiers are dying," he said, the anger draining from him and replaced by weariness. "The enemy is strong, and his army fears him more than death. You've seen them - you know." She remembered the Orcs, their powerful bodies wielding wicked, black blades, and the way they hurled themselves at their foes without fear or hesitation. She remembered Boromir, his shoulder pierced by the black-feathered arrow. And now she remembered - now she remembered the bodies, bodies with arrows from Legolas' bow protruding from them like obscene parodies of reeds growing on blood-soaked hills, remembered red wetness that had been hewn from living creatures by the weapons of the Men and the Dwarf. She remembered the Hobbits, so like children, their own blades and hands bloodied, and what would have happened had she not been there. What would have happened. She remembered her dream, Boromir shot through with arrows and falling. She felt her lungs grow tight, and felt tears so deep within her that they would not rise, but stopped her breath.

They stood like that for a long moment, she pressed to the wall, he with his hands on either side of her. Finally she shook her head once and said, "But look, handguns - I don't even think they're any good for soldiers. You need, like, long guns, like rifles or - or machine guns or something. And even if we sent someone now, there's not enough time. They couldn't backwards-engineer it and get new ones forged in time to do any good, and I don't understand how they work well enough to help them out very much."

"Then where's the harm?" he asked, and she could hear something akin to humor in his voice.

"The harm comes later," she replied, looking at him again, "after the ring is destroyed and things are back to normal except that now you have this new weapon that you can carry in your pocket and use to kill someone without ever getting within a hundred feet of them." But her resolve, never very strong, had weakened even further.

With one finger Boromir stroked the skin of her cheek, and she trembled. "Maggie," he said. "Do you not think your coming here may have had a purpose?" His eyes traveled over her face, her hair, came to meet her own again. " You are strong," he said, "and you have courage, but you are not a soldier. You cannot know the things we face, or the risks a captain would take to give his men even a moment's advantage - anything to bring one more soldier home alive, and the enemy defeated." He sighed, a soft sound. "I know you do not trust the future," he said at last, "but trust in the soldiers of Gondor. Trust in her king. And trust in me." She couldn't look into his face another moment, found herself looking at his boots instead, unable to raise her eyes from the ground. She still trembled, from his touch, from his anger, from her own fear. She felt his hand touch her hair. "Look up, little one," he said gently.

After a long moment, he moved his fingers to her chin, pressing her to obey. "Not many people have called me 'little'," she said softly, her gaze resting on his lips, unable to move higher.

He smiled. "It's no surprise. You're as tall as the women of Rohan, and even were you the size of a Hobbit I dare say none would think you small."

Finally she looked into Boromir's eyes, and where before there had been lightning, now they were calm as an evening sky. Before she lost herself in them, she said, "Why did you come to ask me for this, instead of Aragorn, if he's the leader?"

Borormir paused before answering. "Aragorn requested it," he said. "He is taking council with Gandalf and Théoden, and also, we did not want you to feel...."

"Like it was an order?" she asked.

He inclined his head. "Yes," he said. "Aragorn felt - we felt that a request from the heir to the throne would seem less like a request than a request from the one-time heir to the Stewardship." The smallest smile curved his lips.

She thought about that. She thought about telling him that it would have been much easier to say no to the heir to a throne she didn't even recognize than to say no to the man who loved that country more than his own life. She thought about asking why they hadn't sent Legolas, or Gimli, or the Hobbits, or anyone else but him. Finally, she whispered, "Can I just tell you how scared I am?"

To her great surprise, he pulled her close and folded his arms around her, and for the first time in longer than she could remember, she felt safe, and protected. She lay her forehead against his shoulder and closed her eyes, her hands drawn up and resting on his solid chest, letting the warmth and strength of his arms comfort her. After a long moment he said, "You must do as your heart tells you. I will not - we will not take what you do not give freely." He stroked her short hair, his warm, calloused hand coming to rest on the nape of her neck, and they stood there, motionless and silent, as the evening light deepened.

Later, after dinner, she left the others at table and found herself wandering the halls of the King's household, alone. She hadn't answered Boromir, though she knew time was short. The army would ride for Isengard in the morning, and she'd have to know by then what she would do: go with the guns to Erebor, to the home of Gimli's father, and pray that somehow they could make it in time to do some good, or ride with the army, if they'd let her. And as loathe as she was to be parted from him, she knew what she would tell him. He was a captain of men, and his men loved him, trusted him. He would have ruled Gondor as her steward if Aragorn hadn't returned, and she believed he'd have been a fine one. She believed he'd have been a fine King. It didn't matter that she knew he might be manipulating her. 

After all, he couldn't fail to know how she felt about him, though she'd tried to talk herself out of it many times. She could still feel the touch of his hand on her neck. "Pheromones," she muttered, her footsteps taking her down a wide staircase lit by torches. "It's got to be pheromones. What do I know about him that would make me feel this way? That he tried to take the ring, that he didn't tell anyone about it 'till he was almost killed. That he loves Gondor more than anything or anyone. That he'd do anything for her."

And that was the heart of the matter. That was what had won her heart to him, from the moment she heard his voice - that love of his people. That willingness to do anything, _anything_ to save them. If he was manipulating her, well, in his place, wouldn't she? When her people were threatened, hadn't she learned to fight, to shoot, to manipulate and deceive, all in order to try and keep them safe? Would she change anything she'd done? No. No, it was that love of his people and his country that overshadowed in her heart any wrong he might have done. She'd give him what he wanted. She'd take the weapons to the Dwarves, and hope that when she returned, he'd still be alive, and that the weapons weren't the only things he wanted from her. She was grateful the ringbearer was gone, because if he hadn't been, she was certain she'd have taken the ring from him herself if that was what Boromir had wanted. 

Her footsteps echoed against the stone, and she found herself in a long room, the walls lined with chairs. No fire was lit in the massive stone fireplace, and she shivered in the chill. Then a voice behind her. "Maggie?" She turned, and in the shadows saw the slim figure of a woman. "Oh! Oh, god! Oh god - guys!"

"Mira?" said Maggie, incredulous, and shook her head. 

"Guys! I found her - we found her! She's here! Aw, shit baby - where have you _been_?" 

Maggie felt her knees weaken and her heart start to pound. "Mira?" she said again, and took a step forward, and the other woman was at her side in three long strides and then they were embracing. Maggie felt tears come to her eyes at the familiar scent of her friend's hair. "Oh, god, Mira," she whispered. And then Jack, Paul, and Greg were there, and she was surrounded again by the familiar, by the warmth and strength of her teammates, by the fragrance of their skin, tangled together and touching like a pack of wolves separated for too long by the hunt.

She took them, along with a stranger they introduced as Janet, to her room, unsure what the welcome would be from the inhabitants of the castle if they met any, and there they told her quickly what had happened while she'd been gone. They'd come to the bar that night to meet her, as planned, and when she wasn't there, asked the bartender if he'd seen her. He told them about the wizard, and about seeing Maggie vanish - he'd tried to stop the wizard from leaving the bar, but without success, though Grace had known him from around town and told them his name: Keith Walsh. They looked for him that night, and the next day had hired Janet to help them track him down. They'd finally found him hiding out in an abandoned factory, and had come on him while he was in the middle of casting a protection spell against someone he called Sorrow. He'd completed the spell just as Janet had completed her entrapment spell, so he was protected from Sorrow but held by Janet. From him, they'd learned of a talisman he'd stolen from Sorrow, who was himself the will and spirit of a long-dead wizard who had possessed the body of a younger one some ninety years before. Keith had stolen the talisman and fled when he realized that Sorrow, for whom he'd been working, planned to abandon the slowly aging body and take Keith's instead. The talisman, Keith told them, focused the user's power, and magnified it. Keith told them that it was Sorrow who had been sapping the will of the people for nine decades, who had been using his power to magnify the weakness in the world, and dampen the strength, to encourage people to selfishness, and twist good intentions to ill ends. "He wants to rule the world," said Paul, "and he figures his best chance is to get everyone so beat down that they'll welcome him when he rises up to take control. "

"I think he's not far from success," said Maggie regretfully.

Mira nodded. "It explains a lot," she said. "He lives in the Black City, in the old Capital building. He's got, like, three dozen other wizards there, all doing what he says."

"'Sorrow', said Maggie thoughtfully. "And he's in the Black City? It's weird, because there's a guy here called Sauron who lives in 'the black land of Mordor' who wants to do kind of the same thing, though he's not too worried about setting things up so folks are glad he's taking control. And apparently the city between him and us is Minas Tirith, which they also call the White City. Our guys have sent someone with some ring of power that belongs to Sauron to destroy it in some mountain, and if he manages it, Sauron will be destroyed."

"And if he doesn't?" asked Paul. "If the ring isn't destroyed?"

Maggie shrugged. "Darkness, evil, chaos, badness. Everyone dies or wishes they had. Like that."

"Charming," said Mira.

"Sorrow and Sauron," said Greg. "I wonder - I mean, there couldn't be - it's got to be coincidence, don't you think?"

They looked at each other, sitting in a circle on the floor of the bedchamber. No one spoke for a while, and then Mira said, "Um, I know we're right in the middle of a big 'oh you've gotta be kidding' moment, but I didn't pee before we left and it's been sort of a long day - where's the bathroom?"

Maggie showed her, and while the four of them went to freshen up, Maggie left in search of Boromir. She found him, with the help of a passing girl she guessed must be a chambermaid, in his quarters, and knocked softly.

"Come," he said, and she opened the door. His eyes widened when he saw her. "Ah, Maggie," and he stood.

She came in. "Um," she said, hesitantly, "something's sort of happened."

His features clouded and he took a step forward."What is it?"

She paused. "Well," she began after a moment, "you know that other world, the one I'm from?"

He nodded.

"Um." She frowned. "I hope it's not - well, it's just that... there's some more of us here now."

He raised a startled brow. "Oh?"

She nodded. "My friends came looking for me."

"Ah," he said, and glanced away.

There was a long silence.

Finally, Boromir said, "And...?"

She shrugged. "And they're in my room, waiting for me to come back so we can figure out what to do."

"They can return you to your world, though, can they not?"

She nodded.

"So you have not yet decided?"

She shook her head.

"I would think you'd be eager to return home," he said cautiously.

"Not so much," she said, looking away. "I mean, there's still the trouble here, right?"

"But this is not your world, not your war," said Boromir softly.

She frowned. "I'm not actually sure that it isn't," she said, and quickly told him what they'd told her.

When she finished, Boromir spoke. "This is not a riddle I can solve," he said, "nor you, I think. Return to your chamber, and I will come presently." She started to protest, to ask him what he planned to do, but he stopped her with a soft sound. "Do as I ask," he said. "I will be there presently."

A short time later Boromir knocked on her door, and when she opened it, he stood flanked by Aragorn and and an old, bearded man in white, leaning on a staff. She was startled, but at Boromir's glance she stepped back to let them in. She motioned to her five companions, seated here and there about the room. "These are my friends," she said, "Mira, Paul, Jack, Greg, and Janet." She didn't feel like explaining that Janet was less a friend than a hired gun, as it were. Looking from them to the three newcomers, she said, "And these are - well, you must be Gandalf, right?" 

"Indeed I am," he answered, and she felt a small thrill at the low, velvety tone of his voice. 

"And these gentlemen," she went on, "are Aragorn and Boromir, who I told y'all about."

Janet stood. "Pleased to meet you," she said, and turning to Gandalf said, "I understand you're an awfully powerful wizard." Maggie could see her fingers moving in her pocket as she fidgeted with the talisman.

He inclined his head. "I have not now the means to travel between this world and yours with the ease with which you seem to have done," he said. "To move so easily from one world, or mayhap one time to another, it would require great resources, great strength."

Janet shrugged, and Maggie suspected she wouldn't say more until she knew what Boromir had already told the wizard. "Well," said Maggie then, "come on in, sit down, I guess we probably need to talk." Paul stood from the chair where he'd been seated and offered it to Gandalf, who took it with a smile and a nod. The others arrayed themselves about the room, Maggie moving to stand nearer to Boromir. She caught Mira's gaze, and the other woman glanced at Boromir and then back, and the look on her face would have been inscrutable to anyone who knew her less well than Maggie did; to Maggie, it said 'oh yes, I see why you like it here....' Maggie blushed faintly.

Gandalf spoke. "Boromir has told us of the wizard in your world, this 'Sorrow'," he said. "He has told us of his plans, which seem not altogether unlike the plans that the Dark Lord of Mordor has, but which seem to me more like plans Saruman might make, the one we ride against on the 'morrow."

Janet started. "Saruman?" she said. "Okay, now this is weird." Eight pairs of eyes fixed on her, and she continued, "well, when I was trying to get Keith to tell us what was going on, he mostly called that guy Sorrow. But once," she said, frowning, "once he called him 'the sorrow of man.' I thought he was just being melodramatic, but when I think about it now, he could have been saying it was his name. 'Sorrow of Man.' Saruman, Sorrow of Man. Slur a little," she said. "And then there's the whole 'black land', 'White City', 'Black City' thing."

Gandalf shook his head. "We cannot know," he said, "though it has a hopeful sound."

Aragorn spoke. "We fear that if this threat to your world is indeed the same as the threat to ours from Mordor, that the quest had failed - will fail - and your world is only what ours will come to."

Jack frowned. "I don't think that's the case," he said. "From what Maggie told us, if this Sauron guy wins, the whole world is plunged into serious badness. Our world, it was good for a long time. We had," he hesitated, "we had good schools, and - and democracy that actually worked. And a lot of countries weren't at war. And people took care of each other."

"If the threat to your world is Saruman, instead," said Gandalf, "or some unrelated evil, then there is still hope. Where is this wizard you called Keith?" he asked, and Maggie suppressed a smile at the strange sound of it, like something out of a Monty Python vid.

"I left him with my brother Michael," said Greg.

"With Michael?" Maggie said, surprised. "I thought y'all weren't on speaking terms."

Greg shrugged. "When I told him what had happened, you disappearing and this Sorrow guy, we sorta remembered why we weren't on speaking terms, and it was really a stupid reason."

"So, y'know, there's that," said Mira. "If nothing else, at least we'll get Michael back in the fold." She smiled brightly.

It was late before they arrived at a plan. Nothing pleased all of them, but they had finally come to terms. For now, they would ignore the threat in the distant world, and let things here progress as though there were no connection. As Jack had pointed out, if it were Saruman, if he were spared in the upcoming battle and they destroyed him solely to stop him in their own world, then their own world might be spared a lot of suffering but everything and everyone they knew might also just wink out of existence, themselves included. Better, they decided, to deal with the immediate threat here, and then return to address the problems in the other world. So Mira, Jack, Greg, Paul, and Janet would return home and bring back weapons and Keith. Greg knew of an arms shipment that would be passing through New Washington on its way to the Black City, and he thought they could acquire it, and the trucks that would carry it. Maggie would ride with the army to Isengard, over the protests of both Boromir and Aragorn.

"She has to," Janet had explained. "Keith put her here just at random, and the only reason we got here was because we were focusing so hard on finding Maggie. And when we arrived, we were within a hundred yards of where she was. If we don't have her here, we may not be able to get back, and if you leave her here at the castle and we have to catch up to the army, well, what if we can't get the trucks through, or they don't run in this world, or we run out of gas and have to hoof it? We might not reach your army in time."

"If I'm there, with the army," said Maggie, "then they'll just 'poof' into the general vicinity."

"Um... with trucks," said Jack thoughtfully. "Maybe we'd better send just one person through first, so we can remove our homing beacon to a spot where we don't risk crushing soldiers."

"Good idea," said Mira.

Boromir frowned. "Explain again these trucks? Steel wagons, that move by themselves?"

Maggie nodded. "Basically. I mean, with a driver, but not pulled by anything."

"And they are not magical?"

"Nope."

He shook his head. "What a strange world you inhabit."

They made one short trip that night, returning after an barely an hour to bring Maggie some of her things, including a packed overnight bag and her cleaning kit, a pair of walkie talkies so that Mira could find her if they reappeared further away than they expected, and more ammunition for the Glocks. They also brought, for Boromir and Aragorn, Greg's Glock 32s that he'd bought from the same guy who sold Maggie her 35s, and the cleaning kit for those. "They've got too much recoil for me," she said as Greg showed them the weapons, "but I know how to use them and how to clean them, so I think it'll be fine." The men handled them easily, though carefully, and Greg set about showing them how to load, unload, how to use the laser sights he had acquired for them some years back, and how to avoid firing them. Meanwhile, Paul took one of the walkie talkies and trotted down the hall to test it; moments later the one in Mira's hand crackled and they heard Paul's voice saying "One, two three. Mira? You there?" She responded, and Paul came back. Janet sat quietly on the bed during the experiment, her face pale, her skin covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Paul went over to her and spoke softly, then looked at Maggie. "She needs to rest," he said. "This back-and-forth today has really taken it out of her."

Maggie nodded, and turned to Boromir. "I want them to stay here the rest of the night. Janet's too weak to take them home right now."

"Of course," he said. "Have they eaten? I'll send to the kitchens if not. I should have thought of it earlier."

Mira shook her head and said, "No, that's fine, though we'll take breakfast in the morning if you've got it. Right now I think just sleep."

Jack, Paul, and Greg left with Boromir and Aragorn, to share their rooms for the night - Gandalf had left earlier; Mira and Janet were to stay with Maggie. "Incidentally," said Mira as Maggie stripped to her underwear and lay the grey dress on the chair, "can I just say how awesome you look in that dress? Great color on you."

Maggie smiled and got into bed beside her friend, Janet already asleep opposite. "Thanks. I felt a little weird in it."

"Well, you looked great. That Boromir guy thought so too," she said, closing her eyes.

"Yeah?" said Maggie. "You think so?"

"Didn't you see him eyeing you?" Mira gazed at her friend and smiled. "Whenever he thought you weren't looking. I figured you'd noticed for sure."

Maggie made a short sound. "He just wants the guns," she said, and Mira shrugged.

"I don't think so, babe," she said. "He didn't have that, 'oh baby, give me some of that _ammunition_' look in his eyes."

Ríma woke them before it was light, and the three women rose, washed, dressed, and gathered their things to leave. Maggie was once again in her own clothes - loose pants of heavy dark cotton, her rubber-soled boots, a tank top, light cardigan over that, and the arm warmers pulled up to her shoulders. "Thank god for layering," she said as she slipped her leather coat on over the whole thing against the chilly pre-dawn air. "At least some things are the same from one world to the next." She slipped the gunbelt on under the coat, wishing she had time to clean the weapons but glad that at least now she had the means to do so. She glanced at Janet, who seemed much better this morning, though sleepy still. "How are you?" she asked, and Janet nodded.

"I'm all right," she said. "Last night it was just - a feeling like you get when you run too long on an empty stomach. Lightheaded, and weird."

Maggie nodded. "Y'know, I know they hired you, but I really appreciate your coming to get me, and doing all this stuff. I know it can't be easy."

She shrugged. "Even if they hadn't paid me, knowing what I know now I think I'd help out anyway. That Sorrow guy," and she shuddered. "What Keith said about him - he sounds just, horrible. Evil. Like, really evil. Not just 'wow, what an asshole' evil."

"Yeah," said Maggie. "I believe it. Well, I'm glad you're along," she said, and smiled.

The three of them trouped down the hall to the stairs, and found the rest of the company in the smaller dining room - Boromir, Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas, Merry, Pippin, and Gandalf. Maggie also recognized Éomer, and beside him, a lovely, tall woman she'd not seen before. Jack, Paul, and Greg were there as well.

"Ah," said Gimli, "the last of the outworlders. Come and warm yourselves by the fire - the chill in these hallways can be bitter."

"My," said Maggie as they entered the room, "we do make quite a crowd when you get us all together."

Breakfast came shortly after, and the conversation flowed, mostly concerning their two worlds. Maggie learned that the woman was named Éowyn, and was to lead the people of Rohan to the Hold of Dunharrow, and that she wasn't entirely happy about it. Maggie watched her, the way she looked at Aragorn, and realized quickly how the woman felt about him. She wondered if Aragorn knew.

Maggie listened to none of the conversations very intently, but watched the group - the way Boromir laughed with the Hobbits, and how playful they were with the big man; the way Aragorn spoke gently to all, and remained affectionate and respectful with Boromir, yet guarded; the way the Dwarf and the Elf shared an easy companionship, and how Mira gazed at Legolas with an air of one who thinks she's seen something she couldn't possibly have seen. Paul and Jack talked animatedly with Éomer, and Greg seemed entranced by Éowyn - Maggie would have felt bad for him if she hadn't known what a player he was back home. Janet sat by Gandalf and the two wizards spoke quietly, a small bubble of calm in the sea of conversation. But she also saw that Boromir recognized Aragorn's distrust of him, and tried to ignore it, but still there was a clouded look in his eyes. Aragorn was his king. Gondor's king. And Boromir would have been her ruler, as Steward, when his time came, if not for Aragorn. But Aragorn didn't trust him. Maggie knew why - the ring that Boromir had tried to take. But she still hated Aragorn just a little for it. And loved him as well, in spite of it, partly because he was, well, Aragorn. Isildur's heir, a Ranger, the Elfstone, smart, strong, passionate, wise, courageous, noble, and damned fine looking. But mostly she loved him, and hated him, because Boromir did.

"Damned pheromones," she muttered irritably to herself.

It was still early morning when they assembled to see the outworlders off before the army rode for Isengard. "I don't know how long we'll be," said Greg. "My contact wasn't sure when the shipment would be where, but we'll come back as quick as we can."

"And if you can't get the weapons at all," said Maggie, taking the lapels of his coat in her hands and looking up at him, "come back anyway, just so I know you didn't get killed trying to get them."

Greg laughed and kissed her forehead. "Will do, boss," he said.

Maggie kissed each of them on the cheek, and when she came to Mira, whispered in her ear, "Do you want me to kidnap the Elf for you?" and smiled.

Mira laughed and shook her head, then whispered back, "No, he's too pretty - like an angel, or like Eros with his bow and arrow, only deadlier. But," she said, "you gotta tell that handsome man how you feel about him. Do it before I get back or I'll tell him for you."

Maggie laughed, and didn't answer, and the five who were returning gathered together, Janet at the center. There was a long pause, Janet standing still with her eyes closed, and then in a blink they were gone. Maggie caught her breath, gazing for a long time at the spot where they'd been, until Éowyn touched her arm. "Come," she said. "The host makes ready to ride. I have a mount for you."

Maggie let Éowyn help her into the saddle. "I've not ridden a horse since I was little," she said apprehensively, feeling the strength of the beast beneath her.

Éowyn smiled up at her from where she held the steed's bridle. "Annin will not let you fall," she said. "I would trust her with a newborn babe."

Maggie laughed. "Well, that's a comfort. Still, I imagine a newborn babe couldn't do much to irritate her - I'm not so sure about me."

"Have faith, outworlder," Éowyn said, but in her voice the word 'outworlder' managed to sound more like 'sister'. "Trust the steeds and the judgment of the Rohirrim." They spent a little time there, Éowyn instructing Maggie in the most basic elements of horsemanship, until Maggie could nudge the horse forwards, turn her left or right, ride in a little circle one way and then the other, and convince her to stop. They tried cantering, and then, Éowyn mounted beside her on her own steed, trotting, and when Éowyn was satisfied that Annin would indeed not let Maggie fall, she urged both mounts to a gallop. Maggie leaned forward over the silvery grey neck of the mare, feeling the wind on her face and her heart pounding. She deliberately relaxed the grip of her knees on Annin's sides and felt the horse relax as well, and then they were turning, Annin following Éowyn back to the host, which seemed further away than Maggie could have imagined they'd ridden in so short a time. They pulled up again beside Boromir and Maggie thrilled at the way Annin pranced to a gentle stop, lightfooted and sure.

Boromir, who had mounted already and watched their brief ride, leaned close over his mount's neck and stroked the dappled coat. "There now," he said, "we will guide the lady Maggie and let no harm come to her," and he glanced over at Maggie, his eyes sparkling. "Annin will bear you well, and Hanûn and I will make sure you do not stray from the company."

Maggie and Éowyn laughed together - the company was more than a thousand men, spears and shields glittering in the sun. Maggie turned to Éowyn, whose laughter had faded as she looked over the host she was not allowed to join. "Éowyn," she said, and the woman she hoped to one day call friend looked at her. "Thank you, so much for taking the time to show me this stuff. I know you - you must have way too much to do as it is."

She smiled. "I have time enough to help a friend who rides to battle," she said and Maggie caught the faint bitterness that slid beneath her easy words.

"They need you, you know," Maggie said. "They - they really do."

Éowyn smiled absently and stroked Annin's neck. "Yes," she said. "And I do what my people ask of me. What my King asks of me." Maggie saw the brightness in her eyes, and Éowyn took a deep breath. "Mayhap we shall meet again, outworlder," she said, and stepped back as Boromir gestured to Maggie to follow him. She obeyed, but her eyes never left Éowyn, though the woman was already striding towards the front of the column.

The host rode all day, and Maggie's whole body hurt long before evening. She could hardly believe it had only been the previous morning that they'd first met the Riders of Rohan. As the sun began to set, she looked around to find Boromir, or any of the company she'd started this bizarre journey with, finally seeing Legolas some yards ahead. She urged Annin forward.

"Ah," said Legolas, "Maggie. It seems you and I have barely spoken since we met the Riders."

"Yeah," she said with a nod. "Things got a little hectic."

"Your friends are true," he said, "coming so far to find you."

She smiled. "They are," she said. "They're more than just friends," she went on thoughtfully. "They're... well, they're my teammates. We train together - it makes things... closer."

"Comrades in arms," said Legolas.

"Yes."

They rode in silence a ways, and then Legolas said, "We ride to war, Maggie. You know this."

She nodded.

"Many will not survive."

"I know," she said.

He looked out across the fields, the spears red in the setting sun. "Is there not one to whom you should speak your heart, while there is yet time for words?"

She didn't answer for a long time, then said, "I don't know if he'd welcome it."

Legolas turned and smiled at her. "And if he does not? Is what would be lost then greater than what will be lost if you never speak?"

She started to answer 'yes,' but at the look in his eyes she hesitated, and thought about it. Finally, she said, "I don't know."

"You will not lose his friendship," said Legolas, "if that is what stops you. Boromir will not abandon a friend for feeling too much," he said, "nor indeed for any other reason, save perhaps treason against Gondor." Maggie didn't say anything. "And," Legolas went on after a pause, "if it is pride that stops you, lay it aside. Pride never kept away the loneliness of the night, nor warmed a friend in winter, nor bathed a fevered brow," he said softly. "Pride is a cold companion." They rode in silence again as the sun began to dip below the horizon. "Look," said Legolas, "Boromir rides alone." She let her gaze follow the Elf's and saw him, but didn't move to go to him. After a bit, Legolas said something softly in a language she didn't recognize, and Annin broke away from his side and trotted to Hanûn. The two horses greeted each other and Annin fell into step beside the dappled steed.

"Maggie," said Boromir. "Has Annin borne you well?"

"Oh yes," said Maggie, hoping Boromir couldn't see her blush in the dim light. 'Damned Elf,' she thought. "When do you think we'll stop for the night?"

"When darkness falls, we'll stop."

She nodded. "I'm still not used to this camping-out thing," she said. "I don't know how to build a fire, even."

"There will be no fires tonight," he replied. "We know not what may wait ahead of us, or follow behind. Caution is best, even if the night is cold."

After some time, she said, "I wonder if it'd be all right if I made my little camp near you. Y'know, not knowing really what I'm doing."

He chuckled. "Indeed, lady, it would be my honor to teach you the intricacies of camping on a field with a thousand men and horses."

She blushed, and forced a laugh. "Don't make fun of me," she said.

"Oh, I do not," he replied, shaking his head. "I do not. There are indeed intricacies, and traps for the unfamiliar or unwary. For instance," he continued, "there is the need to be mindful of your steed's natural skills as a fertilizer of the soil," and Maggie chuckled, "to say nothing of making one's rations palatable with neither fire nor an excess of water. No," he said, "I do not mock you. I merely remember my own first campaign, which became an endless source of amusement for my brother." She heard the smile in his voice, and relaxed, and some time later the column came to a halt in the darkness and they made camp.

Hanûn and Annin cropping grass nearby, Maggie sat with her knees drawn up and waited for Boromir to return. He'd gone to speak to Aragorn, though she didn't know about what. The night grew colder as she waited, and she wished for a book to read, or someone to talk to. She looked around at the soldiers nearby, small groups of two or three or four shadows gathered about what would have been fires had the way been less uncertain. She could hear the rise and fall of their low voices, but the words were as indistinct as their figures. Finally she heard footsteps, saw Boromir's silhouette black against the blue-black sky and he sat down beside her. "The scouts have seen nothing as yet," he said, "and guards encircle the host. The night will pass without event, I think."

"That's good," she said. He was inches from her now, and she could smell the leather he wore, the pleasant odor of Hanûn mixed with the musky fragrance of his own sweat. She wondered if he found such fragrances as pleasant as she did, or if he'd have welcomed the coming of antiperspirant and shaved armpits for women. "How long do you think it'll take us to reach Isengard?" she asked finally.

"Another day, perhaps a bit more," he said, "if we are not turned aside."

They sat in silence for a few moments longer, weary and sore. "I wonder," she said at last, and felt him turn to her. She didn't face him. "I wonder, if I said to you that I would still like to hear the story of your life, one day, over a drink in a quiet place, while looking into your beautiful eyes," she paused. "I wonder if you'd laugh again."

There was a long silence, and then he reached out to her and cupped her chin in his hand, turned her face towards him in the darkness. "I would not laugh," he said. "I would not laugh."

She felt her breath catch, felt her heart beating for what seemed like the first time, and she raised her hand to his cheek.

He turned his lips to her palm and spoke softly into it. "Your sweet hands are so cold," he said, and her blood seemed to rise to his touch. He pressed his own hand over hers, kissing her palm, so soft, and warm in spite of the cold night. He still held her chin in his hand, and leaning forward, he pressed a kiss to her cheek, to her brow, and then she felt his forehead touch hers, felt the softness of his lashes where they brushed her skin, felt the warmth of his breath. Afraid to frighten the tender moment away she scarcely drew breath of her own, and finally, so slowly, so softly, he touched his lips to hers.


	4. Desire And Despair

I don't own any part of LOTR and I'm certainly making no money from this, but I'm more grateful to Mr. Tolkien than I can say for creating such a rich world that so many people want to engage with it themselves. [See previous chapters for other disclaimers.] 

_Note: The poem quoted herein is by Edna St. Vincent Millay, one of the greatest poets of the modern - or any - age. Her sonnets are masterpieces. Read __Fatal Interview_, or _Sonnets From An Ungrafted Tree_. Or any of them, really.

**An End To Innocence**

**Chapter Four: Desire And Despair**

The kiss, so tender she could scarcely believe such a warrior capable of it, seemed to draw electricity to the surface of her skin, as if her soul were trying to reach him. He teased her lips open with velvet tongue, and she welcomed him, breathing in his breath, pressing her mouth to his. When they parted, she felt as though the ground had fallen away beneath her. "You tremble," he said in a whisper, and she didn't answer. "Am I so fearsome?" he asked, and she choked back a laugh, shaking her head.

"No," she said, "and yes. Yes."

He unfastened the clasp of his cloak and drew it around the both of them, pulling her near. "Nay, I am not," he said. "I think you merely need warming. Come, lay back," and he pulled her gently with him to the ground. "A poor bed I may be," and she could hear the humor in his voice, "no softer than the stony ground, but perhaps not so cold. Sleep now," he said. "The morning comes too soon, and none know what the day brings."

She was silent for a moment, her cheek resting in the hollow of his shoulder. Then, "Boromir," softly.

"Yes?"

She hesitated. "None know what the day brings," she said at last, "you're right... but...." and unsure of herself, she fell silent again, then felt his lips on her brow. 

"Speak," he said gently.

"If ... if we're parted tomorrow," she said, and stopped again.

He stroked her shoulder, reached over with his other hand to capture hers and brought it to his lips.

She curled closer about him. "'Love is not all,'" she murmured to herself, "'it is not meat nor drink, nor slumber, nor a roof against the rain....' That's from a poem I read years ago," she said. "By Edna St. Vincent Millay. I've had it stuck in my head today, I don't know why."

She felt his thumb caressing her hand. "I listen to the songs men sing," he answered. "But I've had little time for books, or poetry. Can you remember the rest?"

"Not all of it," she said. "But the last part. 'It may well be that in a difficult hour,'" she recited, her voice low, "'pinned down by pain and moaning for release, or nagged by want past resolution's power, I might be driven to sell your love for peace, or trade the memory of this night for food. It may well be. I do not think I would.'" She lay quietly then, in his arms, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. "I know," she said finally, "that we're not - that - that things aren't simple. And love is a bigger word than it looks. But whatever happens, tomorrow or after, I just wanted you to know that with you, here, right now, I feel... whole." She turned her face up towards his, kissed his throat. "You are the noblest of men," she said softly.

"Oh, sweet," he replied, "nay, I am not. You do not know."

"Maybe we have to define 'noble'," she said, smiling. "Because in my book, someone who loves his people as much as you do, would sacrifice for them as much as you would," and she paused. "You are," she said finally. "You are."

The day dawned cloudless, but the sun was veiled in haze, and behind it came darkness, as if heavy stormclouds followed out of the east. Boromir had helped her lace on the leather and chain mail arm guards that Éowyn had lent her, and the leather and chain corslet, but the day had grown warm too quickly and she sweated beneath the unfamiliar armor. She'd moved both knives to boot sheaths, since there was no good way to wear the arm sheath over the armor, and the Glocks rode on her hips as always. Boromir, Legolas, and Aragorn had taken some time with her that day to practice with the weapons - first unloaded, then, sparingly, with live ammunition. They'd ridden some ways away from the rest of the company to do it, so as not to frighten the horses, and Legolas, who after examining one of guns refused to touch them again, held their mounts and spoke softly to them as the other three worked.

"They are surprising," Aragorn called over his shoulder to the Elf, pleased by the laser sight, which showed well in the hazy light of the day. "Are you certain you do not wish to try them?"

"Nay, Aragorn," Legolas called back. "I'll keep to my bow. My arrows, I can retrieve and use again, and the noise of those things is not to my liking."

"It's true," said Boromir, "the weapons are dependent on the bearer's ability to find fresh ammunition. It limits them."

"Yet the - the laser sight?" Aragorn turned to Maggie for confirmation and she nodded. "The laser sight gives even a novice the chance to wreak heavy damage on an enemy. Mayhap they are only useful for a short time, but for even a short time, they will be a help."

As they rode back towards the company, Legolas said to Maggie, "So, have you named them yet?" She caught the trace of a smile in his voice.

"Well," she said. "I hadn't. But then it came to me today. What I should call them." 

"And?" he said.

"Desire and Despair," she answered, smiling.

He laughed. "Fitting," he said, "two sides of one coin, each as dangerous as the other, in its own way. Which is which?" he asked.

"Desire is on my right - it's the one I reach for first," she said. "Despair is the one I take when Desire runs out."

Maggie rode alone most of the day. The others - Boromir, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli, the Hobbits with them - had ridden to the front and had remained there with the king after their target practice. Boromir, discreet, had left her with barely the touch of his finger to her cheek, and a smile, but it warmed her as much as his kiss. Théoden had taken a liking to both Hobbits, especially Merry, and she was glad of it. She'd worried that Merry and Pippin might be sent to Dunharrow, and though she knew their current path was more dangerous, she also knew neither of them wanted to be shipped off like refugees, nor be separated from their companions. She herself, though, preferred to stay near the back, she wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the King's guard; maybe it was that she could imagine herself nothing but a soldier, here at the back, out of the way, where no one spoke to her but no one minded her presence either. Far ahead, if she used the binoculars, she could see the others, see Boromir riding to the left of Aragorn, the sun glinting from the metal of his gear. And Aragorn, to the left of Théoden. She wondered how Boromir could surrender so easily what Maggie thought was a defensible claim on the throne of Gondor, but watching them ride together, the way they inclined towards each other when they spoke, and how the two of them would ride a little ways ahead, then back together - they seemed as natural as brothers. She wondered if it were Mira and she in a similar situation, would she dispute Mira? would she challenge her? She thought of her friend's easy way in training: strong, yet gentle; charismatic, capable, generous. She'd trusted Mira with her life, over and over again, as Mira had trusted Maggie. No, she wouldn't challenge Mira. But neither did she think Mira would challenge her. 

As late morning moved to afternoon, with it came dark clouds, and the lowering sun was the red of fear, seeming to tip the Riders' spears with bright blood. Nearby her, one of the Riders was singing to himself, and the sound of his voice was soothing. She'd finally gotten used to her mount's gait, and no longer feared she might fall off at any moment. She let her mind drift, the Rider's song slipping in and out of her consciousness like cool water.

As the red sun dipped below the horizon, the company of soldiers ground to a halt. Maggie pulled Annin to a stop, and raised the binoculars to her eyes. Ahead, in the vanguard, she saw a newcomer speaking to Théoden, saw him fall to his knees and offer his sword to the king. Gandalf had ridden ahead, and she could see him shining white even in the crimson glow of the ending day. He rode back swiftly, and she heard his voice carried on the wind, but couldn't tell what he said; then Shadowfax sprang away and he was gone. Shortly thereafter the company moved again, but in a new direction - southward, and Maggie wondered what had happened to pull them away from Isengard. She paled at the idea of riding to the fore to ask, but then she heard the murmur of voices, news traveling back among the soldiers, and the wave of it reached her: Théodred had fallen; Erkenbrand was drawing what remained of his men to Helm's Deep, and the host was riding to his aid.

They rode on into darkness, and here and there as they rode Maggie could see shapes moving in the shadows - fleeing before the Riders could reach them, or archers shoot them. She kept her guns holstered, but loosened the knives in her boots. She didn't know much about horses, but she was pretty sure that taking pot-shots at fleeing enemies in the quiet dark was not the way to keep the animals calm. Still, she didn't know when one of those shadowy shapes might come close. The pace of the column slowed as the darkness deepened and the path climbed into the foothills of the mountain. Behind them, they could hear singing, and it was not the songs of Rohan. They'd climbed far into what Maggie had found out was called the Deeping-coomb before they turned to look back, and Maggie's blood chilled at what she saw: scattered torches illumined a massive army, writhing towards them like beetles over the plain. Here and there they were setting fires, though whether to homes, trees, or what, Maggie couldn't tell. She wished, almost desperately, that Boromir were with her, so she'd know he was safe, and would know he didn't regret the kiss, regret being so kind to her that she'd actually used the "L" word, but he was in front, hidden in the darkness, and she rode with the rearguard. "No way out but through," she murmured to herself, for the second time since finding herself in this world. 'What else is there to do?' she thought. 'You fight, and maybe you die and maybe you don't. Or you hide, and die later, and harder, and probably alone.'

Clouds veiled the moon and stars, and no light eased the darkness when they reached the stream that flowed out of mountain beside the road from the Hornburg. Slowly, the company passed through the breach in the dike, and Maggie saw, far above, what she guessed must be Helm's Gate, that she'd heard the soldiers around her talking about. One had said that the Hornburg had never been taken, as long as men defended it. She wanted very much to get there - behind them came that army, and the harsh sound of their song. All around her were the soldiers on their mounts, the animal scents of horse and leather and sweat blending together with the acrid odor of steel to form a heady incense, and she felt disoriented, cut off from anything familiar. The day that had passed seemed like a dream, and this the thin edge before the nightmare. Annin beneath her was real, and that was all. And then a voice, she couldn't see the speaker in the dark, called out: "Rearguard, stand, and keep the breach."

Beside her, a soldier spoke. "You are not part of the guard," he said. "You should fly to Helm's Deep, get you inside the wall."

She looked at him, and his face was shadowed.

"Go!" he said again when she didn't respond. "Get you inside. We are too few here - we cannot hold the breach for long."

"If I stay," she said, "maybe you'll hold it a little longer."

"The king would not have you die, I think," he said, "a woman, and not of Rohan, nor any land I know."

In her mind, she saw the faces of the Orcs she'd killed, and the faces of the men around her, apprehensive, brave, determined, and most of them, in all likelihood, doomed. And she saw Boromir, wounded, standing between the Hobbits and the enemy; felt his finger on her cheek, his soft voice. Do you not think your coming here may have had a purpose? "The horses," she said at last. "Are they scared of loud, sharp noises in battle? Like a - like the crack of a tree if you could snap it off in a second, or the sudden crack of thunder right overhead? Or flashes of bright light nearby?"

He frowned, and replied, "They would not be of much use if they were. Nay, they are steady beasts, the horses of Rohan."

"Then I'll stay," she said, drawing Desire and checking it. She caught his puzzled glance and said, "It's a weapon. Like a bow, only - louder. And smaller."

"So small," he said, "it cannot be but a toy for a child!" but he wasn't laughing.

She shook her head. "It's not a toy," she said. "It fires metal seeds that bloom death. They enter the body at greater speed than an arrow, and there they - they flatten out. They make a very small hole going in," she said, slipping the weapon back into the holster and drawing Despair, "do a lot of damage as they pass through," checking the weapon, "and make a very large hole coming out." She holstered the second Glock. "And I really hope I get the chance to clean the guns, finally, after this."

She sat astride Annin, the others of the rearguard lined up along the breach, soldiers to either side of her - bows ready, swords drawn, as the enemy advanced in silence. Their songs had stopped, and Maggie was almost sorry for it, the quiet becoming too much to bear. Then, beside her, one of the Riders began singing to himself. Next to him another took up the song, and soon, all of them were singing, low, a song in a language she didn't recognize, the tune neither mournful nor military, but stirring, longing. It curled around her like the glow of a candle, but as the army of Orcs and wild men continued to advance, the singing of the Riders faded into stillness, and they waited. Desire in her hand, Despair still holstered, she watched them come. 

A hoarse command from down the line, and the archers drew back their bows; she took the meaning, and sighted down the barrel of Desire, holding tight to Annin with her knees. She trembled, but the horse was calm beneath her. Then with a great shout, the tide of the enemy came crashing forward - archers loosed their arrows and the noise of the gun was loud in her ears even over the clash of weapons. One after another, she sighted and fired, unsure where she killed and where she only wounded, the screams of enemy and friend ripping the air. But there were too many, and the rearguard began to fall back towards Helm's Gate. Annin danced this way and that, nimbly avoiding the soldiers around her, and Maggie clung on and continued to fire into the mass of foes that were approaching in a heavy black wave. They were breaking through. She saw a Rider take a spear to his throat, and screamed as she shot the Orc who had impaled him, both bodies jerking in shock as the bullet tore through the Orc and the soldier died on the end of the spear. 

All around her seemed smoke and blood, and as Desire emptied she heard the voice of the commander, "Fall back! Fall back to the Gate!" She holstered Desire and drew Despair, and as she did so, she saw yellow eyes at her heel. She twisted savagely in the saddle and fired point blank into the face of the Orc who grasped at Annin's reins. Annin reared up, ripping them from the dying grip of the enemy, who fell beneath her hooves, but Maggie felt herself slipping from the saddle. She grabbed frantically for Annin's pommel, but too late, and fell hard to the ground. 

Scrambling to her feet she glanced around in a panic, weapon still in her hand, and quickly drew the knife from her left boot. From the corner of her eye she saw a dark shape slicing down from above, dropped to the ground and rolled beneath the blade as it whistled through the air where she had been. A black-booted foot stamped heavily down on her right arm, trapping her, and she grunted in pain, and saw the heavy figure of an Orc above her, his outline limned in red from the light of the distant torches. He grinned, raising the sword, and she twisted towards the leg that trapped her arm and sliced hard with the knife in her left hand, feeling flesh give way as she cut deep into his thigh where the greave left it exposed. She felt hot blood spurt onto her hand and cheek as he gave a yell and leapt back away from her. Barely able to move right her arm, almost numb from the force of the blow to it, she fired anyway, the bullet striking too low and wrenching a howl from him. He raised his sword again, and with shout she came to her knees and lunged forward, hitting him hard with her shoulder and driving the knife upwards between greave and corselet, into the flesh of his groin; he shrieked and fell backwards heavily, the impact disloging his helm - the mark of the White Hand flashed as it rolled away. Maggie pushed up into a crouch and flung herself astride the creature's barrel chest, her knees pressing his biceps hard into the dirt, and in the instant she saw his face she realized to her horror, this was no Orc - it was a man. Not a man of the Riddermark, not a man who'd mistaken her for a foe, but a man who wore the black armor of Saruman's forces, who'd born the mark of the White Hand on his helm. He started to sit up, too strong for her body to be much impediment, and without thinking she thrust savagely downward with the knife, the force of the blow driving him back down as the blade stabbed through his throat and into the ground beneath. He gurgled, eyes wide, trying to reach for the knife but blocked by her knees, where they still pressed the weight of her body against him. Switching the gun to her left hand, she pressed it to his forehead; his eyes locked on hers and she felt her lips pull back from her teeth in an animal snarl as she fired. His body jerked hard, convulsed, and lay still, and she saw the wet grey mass that had been his brain, now glistening on the muddy ground.

For a moment she sat without breathing, staring at the motionless corpse beneath her that moments ago had been alive and human and filled with passion and hatred. Then, as though breaking the surface of the ocean after too long below, she gasped and surged to her feet. Switching the gun briefly back to her right hand she reached down with her left and yanked the knife from the man's throat, wiped it on the heavy fabric of her pants and sheathed it quickly, then switched Despair back. Her right arm barely under her control, she knew she had a better chance of hitting what she aimed at, even though she'd not practiced as much with the left as she now wished she had. She found Annin's reins, pulled the horse around and hauled herself into the saddle again, then tried to get her bearings - this way, the breach, overrun; that way, Helm's Gate; there, a soldier pressed by an Orc - she aimed and fired, catching the creature in the shoulder and staggering him, and the soldier brought his sword down in a dully gleaming arc, gore flying from the blade as he cleaved the Orc's neck almost in two. The Orc fell, and was trampled by the hooves of another soldier's steed as the soldier drew the other up onto his mount. He spun the horse around to face her and shouted "The Gate! Get to the Gate before they close it!" She spurred Annin in pursuit of the pair, and up the long causeway and the ramp they galloped, Maggie clinging tight to her mount, Despair still clutched in her left hand. The entered the gate with the last of the surviving rear guard, and she heard it drawn heavily shut behind her.

"Come," a woman took Annin's reins and Maggie threw her leg over and dismounted, staggering a little against the mount as she holstered the Glock. "We're taking the horses to the caverns. Are you injured?" she asked.

Maggie shook her head, although she wasn't sure. "Boromir," she said, "do you - or Aragorn - are they here?"

And suddenly she heard Boromir's voice, and looked up to find him. He was across the wide hallway, coming towards her. "By all the gods, woman!" he said as he reached her and grasped her in a fierce embrace, then just as quickly pushed her away and took her face between his hands, furious. "Why did you not ride to the Gate? What held you?"

"I was in the rear," she said, still trying to calm her pounding heart, trying to see through the haze of blood that seemed to cloud her vision. "I - he said the rearguard should hold the breach. The - there were soldiers around me, they weren't going to the Gate. I stayed." She paused. "That's all. I just - I stayed. To fight. To help."

"And fight well, she did," said a voice from behind her. She turned to see the soldier who'd led her to the causeway. "She has courage, friend; do not rebuke her for it." 

Maggie saw Boromir's eyes darken, saw him start to answer the man, but then he hesitated, and said, "Yes," his hands on her face becoming gentle. "Our need is too great to chasten those who answer it." The man smiled and turned away, and Boromir faced her again, "No matter that we would have had her fly to the caverns instead, and have been searching for her since we realized she was not within the wall. I did not want to find you among the slain, come morning," he said, and paused, his gaze taking in her bloodied appearance. "What of this is your blood, and what the enemy's?"

She shook her head. "I'm not sure," she said, running her fingers over her right arm, testing for damage. "I think I'm all right."

"You've a cut on your forehead," he said, and she raised her hand to it and winced.

"Huh. I knew it stung like a bitch - I thought it was just a scrape." She took a deep breath and leaned against him a little, and he slipped his arm under her shoulders.

"Come," he said, and led her unprotesting to where a woman was bandaging a wounded soldier who couldn't have been more than sixteen. Boromir sat her beside the boy and motioned to the woman, who nodded. "When she's finished with you," he said to Maggie, "you go to the caverns with the horses." He paused. "Do as I say," he said firmly, kissed her hand quickly and then was gone, up the corridor towards the fighting.

When the woman had finished with the boy, she turned to Maggie. "Here, you're hurt nowhere else?" she said.

Maggie shook her head. "I don't think so."

"Let's clean you up a bit and see." But apart from the cut, all she found were the heavy bruises on Maggie's right arm, and further ones on the side of her left thigh where the Glock cleaning kit had dug into her leg when she fell, and on her knees. She supposed adrenalin had muffled the pain for a while, but now that she was safe, relatively speaking, and the feeling had come back to her arm, it started to ache, along with the other bruises. Her head hurt, and she wished for painkillers. The woman, whose name Maggie learned was Aronar, cleaned and bandaged the wound, then helped Maggie back on with the arm guards and corslet. After thanking her, Maggie walked half a dozen paces in the direction Boromir had gone, and sat down wearily, her back to the wall. She looked around, but saw no horses, nor anyone who looked like they were heading to any caverns, so with a sigh, she unzipped the pocket of her pants where the little cleaning kit rested, grateful it hadn't been torn away during the fight. Then she unholstered Desire and set about cleaning it.

She was just finishing up Despair when, from the Deeping Wall, the sounds of battle came to her. She wondered how long she'd been hearing them, as she'd sat there cleaning her weapons, oblivious to everything but the steel in her lap. She finished loading the guns and slipped them back into their holsters, Desire on the right, Despair on the left. She flexed her right arm, and discovered it worked fine again, if painfully. She wanted to stand, wanted to find her way out there. She knew Boromir would be angry if she did, but she also knew that if the enemy overwhelmed them, she'd rather die under the sky with the defenders than be hacked to death inside stone walls, trying to get away. And that if she stayed back from the battle, if she could fight and didn't, could help and didn't, the memory of it would never leave her, and she'd never sleep without waking from dreams of blood and the dying.

Inside the corridor where she sat, men were beginning to move, and she heard shouts and a great boom and shudder. In the distance came a cry over the noise, and then the voices of many men shouting. Though she couldn't make out the words, there was joy in their tone, and she got to her feet. For an instant the face of the man she'd stabbed in the throat swam before her, but she shook her head and banished it. "Not now," she muttered. 

Following the others, she hurried 'round the corridor and to the outer court of the Hornburg, and was brought up short by what she saw. Below on the Deeping Wall, chaos seemed to rule, until she looked more closely and saw that here men threw down a ladder that had been raised; there, they cut through grappling ropes or dislodged the massive hooks; and here, archers picked off enemies one at a time through clefts in the stone until there were no more arrows, and then they hurled down stones. She ran down the steps to the wall and found a slit through which she could fire. One after another, she picked off the enemy until her ammunition was spent, then, holstering the both Desire and Despair, she drew the knives and sent a quick but fervent prayer to God that she'd live to see the morning.

When finally the Deeping Wall was taken, and with many soldiers she retreated to the outer wall of the Hornburg, Maggie found a moment to stop, and breathe. Her body ached, and she had a long, shallow cut high on her right thigh that she'd managed to bandage by cutting off most of the ruined right leg of her pants. She stood, in a momentary break in the fighting, with her shoulders against the wall, eyes closed, breathing heavily. When she opened them again it was in time to see Legolas and Aragorn, armor gleaming in the light from the moon which had finally broken through, walking among the soldiers. As if feeling her eyes on him, Legolas turned to her, and a smile crossed his face, briefly. "You yet live, I see," he said, coming over to her. "Boromir said you awaited him in the caverns."

"Yeah, well," she said, shrugging. "And Boromir...?"

"Alive, when last I saw him. He will ride with the Eorlingas at dawn, with Théoden King."

"Ride where?" she asked frowning. "We're sort of hemmed in, aren't we?"

He glanced away, then back, and the faint smile appeared again. "Yes, well," he said.

She waited for him to continue, and then laughed. "Yes, well," and she resisted the irrational impulse to hug him.

Aragorn stood suddenly beside Legolas, gazing at her. "You were to be in the caverns," he said, and his voice was stern. She stared back at him, trying to figure out what she'd missed. "Your place is not here in the battle," he continued when she didn't respond, "no more than Merry and Pippin, who went where they were asked." He paused again, and still she looked at him, unspeaking, trying to find the words to explain why she was here instead of there, trying to fight down her rising anger. She was too tired, too sore, too confused to want to trade explanations and rationalizations with this man. "You have no sword," he went on at last, "you cannot even glean your ammunition from the dead as Legolas can. You -"

"Yeah? Well fuck you," she snarled, scowling, and missed the truly stunned look that crossed both their faces. "I'm not dead, I'm not - not helpless. Geezus, you'd think I'd been sitting on my ass powdering my nose all this time - what the hell do you think I've been doing? Just getting in the way?" As soon as she said it, she stopped and thought. "No," she said at last, "I've not been getting in the way. I may not be able to swing a big-assed sword the way you boys can, and yeah, the fuckin' guns are useless until - well, until forever maybe - but I've got my knives, and I can fight, and I can push down a ladder or throw rocks or help shove a grappling hook off the wall as well as any of the sixteen year old boys you've got fighting for this place. So don't give me any crap about how I should be in the damned caverns."

Legolas took a step forward. "You know to whom you speak," he said in a low voice. "You should hold your tongue and do as you're told." 

She took a deep breath, but before she could decide how to respond, Aragorn spoke. "She gives no offense, Legolas," he said, and she started, half waiting for him to finish, 'She's not from around here.' He reached out and touched her hair, slipped his hand around to cradle the back of her head. "You fight bravely," he said, with a small smile. "I do not think otherwise. But you would be sorely missed if aught were to happen to you, and Boromir expected you were safe."

To her dismay, the mention of Boromir's name and the gentle touch of Aragorn's hand brought quick tears to her eyes. She didn't bother wiping them away, and Aragorn said to Legolas, "Go, take her with you to the horses. It will be time soon." He turned to Maggie. "You may _not_ ride with us this dawn," he said firmly. "Your knives, so useful on the wall or on the ground, would not be so useful on horseback, but the son of Denethor will be there 'ere long, and it will do him good to see that you live."

She leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the cheek, whispering "Thank you," against his skin, and then "I'm sorry for being a bitch just now," and meeting his eyes just once, turned and followed Legolas.


	5. A Ghost In Ashes

I don't own any part of LOTR and I'm certainly making no money from this, but I'm more grateful to Mr. Tolkien than I can say for creating such a rich world that so many people want to engage with it themselves. [See previous chapters for other disclaimers.] 

**An End To Innocence**

_There are two elements that go to the composition of friendship:   
one is truth, and the other is tenderness. –Emerson _

**Chapter Five: A Ghost In Ashes**

Mira called it her "you suck" voice - and had gently chastised her over and over for listening to it. It whispered to her as she followed Legolas to the caverns. 'You're running away,' it said. 'Any excuse. Like Boromir's even going to notice if you're not there - he's fighting a war, for crying out loud! God, you're so self-centered. If you were who you pretend you are, you'd be back there on the wall, and to hell with Aragorn and his "your place is not in battle" crap. He's not _your_ king, you don't have to do what he says, but no, you're high-tailing it underground to see some guy who's probably sorry he didn't tell you to piss off when he realized how you felt.' And behind the voice, like a ghost in ashes, was the face of the man she'd killed. Hurrying through the stone hallways, the only light from torches spaced too far apart to do more than point the way, she tried to banish both, but both remained, the one berating her for cowardice, the other gripping her heart with cold hands and calling her a killer. It didn't matter that he'd have killed her if she hadn't, there was still the look in his eyes, the shock and fear on his face as he tried to reach the knife with his hands while he choked on his own blood. Even as she held the gun to his head he fought for life, scrabbling weakly against her to reach the blade. She remembered the way the blood had bubbled around it as he'd tried to breathe. He hadn't known what the gun she pressed to his forehead was, but he'd known the look on her face, and he was afraid.

She remembered the way her lips had drawn back, baring her teeth, when her own fear had turned to suddenly to savage rage. And though she wanted to believe it was for the lives he'd taken, the more he'd have taken if he'd lived, she couldn't deceive herself. She felt it in the back of her throat. Her rage was not for others, but for herself. He had hurt her. He'd hurt her, and he'd grinned at her when he'd done it, and he'd have killed her if she'd let him, and her rage was at his arrogance, that he would try to harm _her_, that he thought he could best _her_. That he kept fighting, that he wouldn't just die, that _he_ was making her kill him like this. She'd shot him for that, and when she'd pulled the trigger it had been with a foul kind of joy.

She stumbled and would have fallen if Legolas hadn't been suddenly at her side, steadying her, but she pulled herself from his grasp and dropped to her knees, pressing close to the stone wall and clasping her hands behind her head so hard her knuckles shone white, trying to push the images from her mind. She felt a cry gather in the pit of her stomach and forced it back until it emerged as a strangled gasp.

Legolas crouched beside her, touching her shoulder lightly. "Lady, what is it? your injury?"

She shook her head and pressed one hand to her eyes, the other steadying herself against the cool wall. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. If she could just go back to the fighting, where that voice and those memories could be lost in noise and action. But here in the relative safety of the Deep, all she could see was his face; all she could hear was the voice, telling her she was a coward, and a killer.

"Come then," he said, slipping his arm around her, and she looked up, her eyes unfocused. Others hurried past, no one sparing a glance for the woman and the Elf. "Come," said Legolas softly, pulling her to her feet, "this is not the place."

"Legolas," she said, as they stood, her voice raw, "I - I don't know what to do."

"There is no decision," he replied firmly. "You placed yourself under Aragorn's protection and command when you joined us; your decision was made when he told you to leave the battle and come to the caverns." When she didn't respond to his insistent tug, he turned and pushed her roughly to the wall, his hand on her throat and strong fingers gripping her jaw, forcing her to face him. "There is _no_ decision," he said, his eyes drilling into hers. "You help no one when you allow the things you've seen or done to keep you from your duty - and your duty now is obedience." He pushed harder against her until she brought her hands up to grip his arm, and her eyes focused on him instead of inwards. "You will do as you are told," he said fiercely. "You will drag your soul back from whatever pit it gazes into, and you will do as you are told."

Under the heat of his anger she felt the fog that had surrounded her begin to clear, the voice fade to indistinctness, and she nodded quickly. Just as quickly he released her throat and slipped his arm across her shoulders, and she let him lead her on.

"Thought you were going to smack me," she muttered.

"Would that help?" he asked.

She couldn't laugh. After a moment she said, "How did you know?"

He hugged her tight to him for a moment, but didn't slow his stride. "You are not the first to be so troubled," he said. "It is for good reason that young soldiers are not thrown into the thick of battle so wantonly, unless the need is as great as ours is this night."

They reached the cavern - huge, bigger than she'd have thought possible, filled now soldiers and horses, with refugees, the wounded, women and children. And ahead of her she saw the dappled coat of Hannûn, and beside the him, Annin, and she smiled.

"I'll leave you now," said Legolas, and turned her to face him. "You will not ride at the dawn," he said, and she nodded. "Good then." He was already turning to leave. "Await your soldier here."

"Legolas," she said, and he turned back to her. "Why do you call him - " She hesitated, and Legolas smiled faintly. "Go," she said, "sorry, I don't know what I'm thinking. Go."

She made her way through the press of horses to where Hannûn and Annin stood, and stroked their velvet noses gently, not realizing she cooed to them as she did so. "Oh," she said softly after a moment, and leaned forward, looking for Annin's pommel. She remembered tying the walkie-talkie there as they'd ridden out, the rest of her belongings having been packed and sent to Dunharrow to await the host's return from Isengard. It was gone. Only the tail of its strap remained, still tied to the pommel and torn. "Ah well, no surprise. I hope Janet gets it right on the first try." She leaned her cheek against Annin's neck and slipped her arm around her erstwhile mount, closing her eyes. "You're not mine now," she murmured. "All decked out for someone else to ride. Don't die," she said. "You're a good horse."

That was where Boromir found her. She started when he put his hands on her shoulders, but didn't turn. "Maggie," he said, gently, "Why did you not do as I asked?"

She shook her head. "I couldn't," she replied. "It - there's too much at stake, too many people here -" and she hesitated. "Maybe I couldn't do much, but - " she shook her head. "There was no reason not to try," she said finally, turning in the circle of his arms to rest her cheek against his shoulder. "No reason except I might get hurt. It didn't seem like reason enough, when everyone around me... even, just boys...."

"You were not meant for this," he whispered, and kissed her hair. "You were not bred to it, not trained for it."

She didn't bother disputing him, though he wasn't entirely correct. "Neither are a lot of people who do it anyway," she replied.

He held her tight for a moment, then said, "Come with me," and he led her away from the horses to the back of the caverns, where the wounded and the refugees had gathered. "Who can wield a sword or a bow will ride with the Eorlingas," he said, and sat her down. "You can do neither. You will await us here, with the others."

She took his hand and gripped it, shaking her head. The sight of the vast, terrible army that clamored at the gate clouded her sight, and he shone like gold in the center of it, all else falling away until it was only him, and the enemy's hatred that she saw. "You can't, there's no way," she said, "you - it's.... There are so _many_ of them," weariness and fear turning her voice to a low plea. She raised his hand to her lips, her eyes closed, and felt his touch on her cheek. "Don't go," she said, knowing even as she did what his reply would be.

He didn't give it. Instead, he gently drew his hand from hers, and said "I will return." He raised her chin and she looked into his eyes. "See that you are here," he said, with a small smile, "when I do." 

"Unless the enemy gets in here and we have to retreat even further," she answered.

She watched him walk away, and sent a fervent prayer that he'd keep his promise and come back. She didn't know how he could, but for a moment, eyes closed, every cell in her body prayed.

The host departed for the gates. Maggie sat, knees drawn up, her chin on her hands, eyes closed, wondering what Mira and the others would think when they couldn't find her, or if they could get to her even if she were dead. She didn't want to think about them coming here, finding her body, if there was anything left of it to find. In the distance, she heard an explosion and a great crash, and the shouts of the enemy, but then the air was split by the great horn of Helm, and it echoed away and back over the hills, never dying, but sounding more strongly with every blast. Maggie opened her eyes. The dawn had come. 

Moments passed, and the sounds of fighting reached them; all the wounded, the women, the children, now sitting forward, tense, weariness forgotten as they tried to tell by sound alone how went the battle. Then a boy, too young to fight, came pelting into the cavern, crying, "Théoden King is away! The Eorlingas rides, and Erkenbrand! Erkenbrand comes with the White Rider! The enemy flees!" A ragged cry went up, and Maggie felt her heart lift with it, and all around her people were embracing. She found herself suddenly someone's arms, a woman, and they held each other fiercely in the crush. 

They slept that morning in the Deep, finding space where they could, while the unhurt dealt with the carnage outside. Maggie had started to go with them, but had been restrained by a woman she didn't know, who gave her a drink of something warm and sweet, and told her to sleep. She couldn't find Boromir, or Aragorn, or the Hobbits, or any of the others, so she went back to the spot where Boromir had left her and lay down beside two young soldiers who rested there. "Ah, you," said one softly. "I remember you. The woman not of the Rohirrim." She looked up, and met the eyes of the soldier who'd told her to fly to the Deep. "How do you find yourself here?" he asked.

She thought about it, then finally answered, "I don't really know."

He smiled, a wry smile. "Well," he said, "I'm glad you've lived to see the day come. Your weapons proved useful," he continued. "I saw some of what they can do."

She nodded. "They're no good now - all the ammunition is gone. But they were great while they lasted."

"Perhaps one day," he said thoughtfully, "you and I will meet in better circumstances, and you can show me these things, and where and how a soldier might come by them."

"I hope so," she said, and lay back, closing her eyes. "I'd like that." 

Mira and Maggie were training, working on Maggie's base. "You've got to be strong, and balanced" said Mira, "or you can't win. Come on now, let's try it again." Maggie took the mount, slipped easily into a wide, low base; if she stayed relaxed, she should have been very hard for someone Mira's size to dislodge, but in seconds Mira had rolled her and gained position. "You're out of balance," Mira said, and her black hair was pale gold. "You've got to keep your balance, or things won't work. Anyone can do anything to you if you can't keep balanced. Try it again, from the guard." Obediently, Maggie went into Mira's guard, postured up, knees snug to Mira's hips, hands planted firmly in her training partner's solar plexus, and without effort Mira swept her and took the mount again. "See what I mean? What's wrong with your base? why are things so out of balance?" Mira's eyes gazed calmly into hers, and the stars behind her glittered like ice. "You are not of this time," she said, her cool voice as soothing as it was menacing. "You bring confusion. The balance is upset, and the narrow path we should have walked has dimmed. None can see the way ahead." Maggie opened her mouth to speak, but no sound emerged. Mira, her dark olive skin as pale and smooth as alabaster, as soft as satin. "He would have betrayed us all. Yet perhaps all may not come to ruin, if the Fellowship is true," her words like petals on a winter wind, "if you do not betray the ones who trust you." Elven eyes shining in the dark, and Maggie woke to torchlight. Beside her sat Pippin, nibbling on a bit of dried fruit. She reached out and touched his knee, softly, to see if he was real, or part of her dream.

"Ah, you're awake," he said brightly. "Good. I was worried you might sleep the afternoon away, and you and I would have to ride alone to Isengard."

She frowned."You - what?"

"I was sent to look for you. The others are with King Théoden, getting ready. We're going to Isengard after all, it seems," he said, popping the last bit of fruit into his mouth. "To a parley, says Gandalf, not to a fight, and after the way Saruman's army ran off when Gandalf appeared, I believe it, though like as not there'll be some fighting between here and there, I think."

She sat up as the Hobbit stood. "Isengard," she said.

"Come on," and Pippin patted her shoulder. "The others'll be wondering what happened to us if I don't bring you back soon, but you were sleeping so soundly there I couldn't stand to wake you."

"Pippin," she said suddenly, looking up at him from where she sat. "The others. Are they all...?"

"All accounted for," he replied, and his gaze was shadowed. "It almost makes you feel guilty, having all your friends live when so many have died." She took his hand, hating to hear such sorrow in the Hobbit's voice. He looked at her and squeezed her fingers. "All the more reason for us to be strong, and go on," he said with the smallest smile. "Make sure our lives are worth the saving."

Together they made their way back through the dim corridors to the gate, and Maggie squinted in the brightness of the daylight. She could see two mounds had been raised, and she felt tears prick her eyes when she realized they were burial mounds. And down in the Deeping coomb, where before had been clear hills, now a dark forest stood. She blinked, and rubbed the tears away, and said to Pippin, "Was I not paying attention last night? I mean, it was dark and all, but was there a forest there yesterday?"

Pippin shook his head. "They just turned up," he said. "Gandalf said they're Ents."

Maggie nodded. "Ents. Of course. What else?" She considered asking what Ents were, but thought better of it, and together she and the Hobbit stepped out into the afternoon. 

"I found her," Pippin called, and Maggie followed his gaze. There Boromir stood with Aragorn and Legolas, and suddenly Maggie remembered that he'd said he'd come back to her, and she felt her heart drop as she realized he hadn't. 'But then,' she thought, 'he didn't actually say he'd come back _to me_, just that he'd come back, and I should be there when he did. And I was.' That comforting thought didn't clear the chill from her skin, though, nor did the knowledge that in the midst of a war, a soldier wasn't going to have time to indulge in a little idle romance. She followed Pippin over to the group, feeling suddenly very out of place. In the light of day, everything that had happened took on a dreamlike quality, and she wondered - not for the first time since she'd arrived in Middle Earth, but for the first time with a sense that something was very, very wrong - what the hell she was doing here.

"Ah," said Aragorn, gazing at her as they approached, "our most stubborn and disobedient comrade," but he smiled when he said it, so she smiled gamely back.

"That's me," she said, "disobedient, grouchy, and in desperate need of a shower. Anyway," she continued as she and Pippin reached them, "I'm not _that_ disobedient. I did go to the caverns eventually." She didn't add that she'd waited right where she'd been told to wait, until she'd been fetched by a Hobbit, hours after the others had returned. "Seriously," she continued, "if there's time, then is there _someplace_ I could get cleaned up before we head out again?"

She bathed in cold water, but it felt so good to be clean again that she didn't even think about it. The cut on her thigh was red at the edges, and felt warmer to the touch than she liked, but one of the women sharing the bath chamber saw, and brought ointment and fresh bandages. "You should take some with you," she said, handing her a little clay jar and a packet of clean cloths. "Those men you travel with never mind if their wounds scar," and she smiled, "but we women often feel otherwise." She helped Maggie change the bandage over her eye, as well, clucking a little at the severity of the cut. "You should have that seen to by a healer," she said.

"If I have time," Maggie replied. "I don't want the party to leave without me, though."

"They'll not leave," the woman said with certainty. "Come, you'll want clean clothes, and I think I've some you can take. My name is Airn," and she took Maggie by the arm. "And though I'm not of one of the royal houses, I still feel some responsibility that Rohan should see to the needs of those who aid us."

"I can't tell you how much I appreciate it," Maggie said. "I'm Maggie, incidentally. Maggie Dunshay."

"You ride with Isildur's heir, and with Hobbits. and with the most beloved Captain of Gondor," Airn said. "I know who you are," and she smiled. "You travel with legends, friend, and though I envy you somewhat, I would not trade lots with you. Legends often make dangerous traveling companions. Here," she said, reaching into a trunk and pulling out soft grey fabric. "These were my sister's, before she married. I think they should fit you nicely."

She helped Maggie dress, the lacings unfamiliar to her. Leather leggings, tougher than the cotton of her ruined pants but lined with something soft as a mouse's ear, were tucked into her own boots with the knives in their sheaths. Over them Airn added a blouse and tunic, helped her back on with the stained leather armor, and put a heavy grey cloak over all, clasped at the throat with a pin of some dark metal in the shape of a galloping horse. The guns rode at her hips, useless though they were without more ammunition. Tucked into a small grey pack were the rest of the few belongings that had previously ridden in her pockets, as well as the cotton arm warmers she couldn't stand to leave behind.

"There," said Airn, stepping back to look at her. "That's better. You look a proper warrior maiden now." Maggie didn't feel like a proper warrior maiden, she felt like she was playing dress-up, badly. Who wore a gun belt over such a lovely tunic, and with armor, no less? Who wore rubber-soled boots in a world that didn't, as far as she could tell, know what rubber was? But she also felt clean, and warm, so she didn't much care. Vanity was useless when you didn't even have a blow dryer or mascara. "Come," said Airn, "when did you eat last?" Maggie thought about it, and Airn shook her head. "That's too long, then," and took her by the hand. "We'll go to the kitchens - there won't be much, but it'll be better than starting a ride on an empty stomach."

The kitchens were crowded, but Airn made her way through the crush and came back with bread, cheese, and two apples. She and Maggie stood in the hallway, and while they ate, Airn talked, told Maggie about the long friendship between Rohan and Gondor, about Boromir's occasional visits, and how worried they'd been when the horse they'd lent him to go to the council at Rivendell came back riderless. "He's as fine a man as you could imagine," Airn said. "And for all that his father is rumored to love him best, he and his brother Faramir are as close as two brothers can be. Indeed, I think there are none whom either loves more, save perhaps Gondor herself."

"And Aragorn?" asked Maggie, keeping her voice carefully casual. "What does it mean that he's Isildur's heir?"

Airn gazed at her a moment, then laughed. "You must be from far away indeed," she said, "not to know. Why, Isildur is the one who cut the Ring from the hand of Sauron the Deceiver. His bloodline has been gone from the throne of Gondor for, why, a thousand years now, give or take a decade or two. Many thought it had perished entirely. The return of Isildur's heir to the throne of Gondor is a miracle long hoped for."

Maggie didn't pursue it further. What she'd actually been asking was why it mattered that Isildur's heir was on the throne, but it seemed clear that this wasn't the kind of place where you ask why the blood made so much difference.

Finally she thanked Airn again, and said goodbye, then found her way back outside. For a moment she stood there at the gate, watching from a distance as Boromir and Aragorn stood discussing something, their armor glinting in the afternoon light, their mounts nearby. She didn't see the others. The two men seemed at odds, their faces serious, tension in their body language. She wondered what they were talking about, and as she watched, they seemed to come to some sort of agreement, and at last Aragorn lay his hand on Boromir's shoulder, and the taller man nodded. They turned then, and, hoping they hadn't caught her watching them, she started down the ramp towards where they were.

"Sorry that took so long," she said as she approached. "We had to change the bandages, and get me some clothes that weren't shredded, and eat, and like that."

"It's well that you did," said Aragorn. "It may be long before we have another chance, and you'd have been cold, with no more than what was left of the breeches you wore last night."

"How fares your poor head?" asked Boromir, "and the cut on your leg?"

Maggie touched her head absently. "Airn - the woman who found these clothes for me - gave me some ointment and some extra bandages," she replied. "I think they'll be fine. She wanted me to see a healer about the one on my forehead, but she didn't seem very insistent when I said I didn't think we had the time, so I'm not too worried." She glanced around. "So," she said. "We're going to Isengard?"

"We are," said Aragorn. Boromir looked away, and Maggie thought maybe she knew what the disagreement had been about.

She paused. "Um," she said, frowning, "I hate to be a pest, but I can't remember where I left my horse. Do either of you...?"

Boromir smiled. "Annin awaits you," he said. "She bore her mount well during our dawn ride, but I believe she prefers a lighter load, and she seemed much pleased when I told her she was to be returned to you. She whinnied," he said seriously, "and stamped the ground, her ears forward. Signs of equine delight."

Maggie grinned. "Annin's okay?" she said. "Yay! She's a lovely horse." Maggie didn't add that she wasn't sure she could have stood it if Annin had died as well.

They rode at an easy pace until they reached the Fords of Isen, and after that they went more swiftly; by midnight the Fords were far behind, and they camped beside the rocky bed where the river Isen had once flowed. Again they lit no fires, but this night she sat with Boromir, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli; the Hobbits, Éomer, Gandalf, and King Théoden a little ways away. Maggie felt profoundly out of her element. She'd been used to dealing with men and women at home who had power, but none who had the kind of power these men had. Princes, kings, kings-to-be, captains of men. And always, at home, she'd been the one they'd eyed warily, never sure what she might do, what she might be keeping back, what might happen if she became angry or took out against them. Here, in the dark of the night, she kept her cloak wrapped around herself and listened.

"Five leagues to the gates of Isengard," said Boromir, "and whither then? It is leagues upon leagues to Minas Tirith, and my brother, my father, they have awaited my coming too long already." Maggie saw him glance at Aragorn, heard something in his voice he didn't say, and she wondered if he'd have had Aragorn come to Gondor more quickly, or not at all.

"We will come to Minas Tirith in time, Boromir," said Aragorn, "and there may yet be means to speed our passage. But for now we go to Isengard to hear what Saruman would say, and see what these 'strange things' Gandalf spoke of may be."

"And if Minas Tirith falls?" Boromir said, and Maggie could hear anger just beneath his voice. "What then for the freedom of the West? Even if the Ringbearer succeeds, all will come to ruin if the White City falls. Saruman and Sauron are not the only evils of the world, and the armies they create may not fall obligingly to dust with their passing."

"Minas Tirith will not fall," said Aragorn, exasperation in his tone. They'd clearly had this discussion before. "Have more faith in your father and your people -"

"_I_ should have more faith?" Boromir said angrily. "I, who have _stayed_ with my people, who have led them, seen their blood soak the earth protecting the freedom of the lands for which you have abandoned us?" Aragorn looked away, his mouth a grim line, then turned shadowed eyes back to Boromir. "And where has the King of Gondor been?" Boromir continued, his voice low, but the bitterness in it hard as stone. "He has been following his heart in the shadows of Elven forests, speaking always and ever of the weakness and failure of Men. You tell me _I_ should have more faith?"

The air was tight and Legolas made to rise. "Captain of Gondor, it is to your king you speak," he said, not yet coming to his feet, and Maggie caught Gimli's gaze. The Dwarf was shaking his head, his eyes hooded.

In the moment's silence before another spoke, Maggie murmured into the stillness, "'...all may not come to ruin, if the Fellowship is true.'" They turned to look at her. "It was a dream I had," she said, meeting Aragorn's eyes, then dropping her gaze again. "I've not been able to shake it. Mira, only she wasn't Mira, she was ... I don't know. Definitely _someone_. Blond, with skin like white roses...." Maggie paused, realized she'd been biting the tip of her ring finger, and made herself stop. "She told me things were out of balance. She said I wasn't of this time, and something about someone who would have betrayed us all," she paused, "and she said 'all may not come to ruin if the Fellowship is true ... if you do not betray the ones who trust you' except I don't know if she meant just me or the whole bunch of us, or what." She shrugged. "It's probably nothing," she said. "It just struck me."

Around them she could hear the small sounds of people who slept, the murmuring voices of those still wakeful, and across from her Legolas slowly relaxed, as an arrow taken from the string. She wondered why he always seemed to feel such a compulsion to defend Aragorn, to point out to Boromir who was supposed to be the boss. It irritated her.

"Boromir," said Aragorn finally, "Once, I said that if you departed the company for Minas Tirith, no one would think the less of you, and that is true. She is your home; we will find you there if we must. But I must go to Isengard, and I would you came with me. My heart warns against dividing our Fellowship further if the choice is left to us."

Beside her, Boromir was silent for a long moment, and she could feel him struggle with conflicting duties. Finally he said, "One man, more or less, even her 'favorite son'...." and Maggie noted the irony that drenched his voice as he trailed off. After a moment he continued, "I will do as my king bids me."

Aragorn inclined his head, and Maggie guessed he'd thank Boromir later, when there weren't so many people around. She'd seen enough of him to know he'd value the sacrifice Boromir had made, not only of his own wish to go to his homeland, but of his pride, acquiescing to Aragorn's will in front of his companions. She also understood, and knew Boromir did as well, that for Aragorn to thank him now would be inappropriate, whether surrounded by friends or strangers. A king didn't thank his subjects for doing as he asked, even a crownless king to a subject who might have ruled in his place, had he chosen not to return.

"Well," said Gimli at last, pulling his cloak tight around his shoulders and patting the ground behind him. "You four talk the night away if you wish," he said, tossing away a few of the larger stones he'd found, "but I'll sleep while I may. Who knows what will greet us at Isengard, that pit of vipers."

Maggie woke in the night to the sound of the watch crying out. She sat up, her heart pounding at the alarm, and saw, with the others, a great darkness coming towards them on both sides of the empty riverbed. She couldn't see the wizard, only heard him telling the riders to draw no weapons, that the shadow would pass them by, but she had no idea what weapon one might draw against darkness. She sat huddled in her cloak, pulled in on herself as tight as she could. Nearby, Legolas and Gimli were awake also, but no one spoke while all around them they heard whisper and groan, as if gigantic beasts moved slowly over the earth. When it finally passed, she sat still a while longer, waiting for her heart to slow. "What can it have been?" she heard Gimli murmur, and Legolas' low voice in response, though she didn't hear the words. She scanned the night for Boromir or Aragorn, and saw them finally, standing shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the riverbed, their shadowed forms so alike - one taller, but both broad of shoulder, both standing straight as spires. After a while, Aragorn turned and came back to their little camp, but Boromir remained. She watched him watching the darkness.

Aragorn moved to sit beside her. "The dream you told us of," he said quietly. "Did you truly dream it?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, turning to him.

He paused, and she could see he wasn't quite looking at her. "Did you truly dream it, or did you say what you felt needed to be said, and couch it in a dream?"

"I dreamed it," she said, shaking her head. "If I'd thought that was what needed to be said, I'd have just said it."

"I ask," he said, "because I believe it is not just the shadows of your mind that formed the dream. I believe it was a sending."

She looked at him. "A what?"

He clasped his hands. "I believe you've been visited by the Lady of Lothlorien, Galadriel. I do not know what the meaning is, but I am glad you told us of it." There was a silence. "I believe Boromir would have gone to Minas Tirith, if not."

"And I'm not clear on why that would be such a bad thing," said Maggie, turning to face him. "Why have you got him going to Isengard when his home is threatened?"

For a moment she thought he wouldn't answer. Then, finally, he said, "The son of Denethor would have ruled Gondor in my stead, if I had remained only Strider, the Ranger." There was a pause, and when he continued he seemed to be speaking more to himself than to her, his voice low, murmuring. "I do not know what strength is in his blood ... or in mine. I know he would have taken the Ring, and doomed us all, but the same can be said of most who are tested thus."

"So what," said Maggie, struggling to keep her voice low, "this is a test? For what? You're going to take the crown, so what does it matter what kind of ruler he'd have been?"

"Not a test," he said, shaking his head. He drew breath to speak, but paused. She could see him considering. Finally, he said, "I want him with me because Boromir and I, each of us, are stronger together than apart." Maggie tried not to let her surprise show. She didn't know what she'd expected, but not this. "His single-mindedness," Aragorn went on, "keeps me mindful of what's at stake for our people alone," and he paused again, looking away, "and my experiences, likewise, recall him to our greater purpose." His gaze met hers. "This is not an admission I would make to many," he said. "A king - even a crownless one - cannot afford to appear too needful of others."

She thought about that for a while, surprised. She hadn't thought he trusted her enough to confide in her about what he planned to have for dinner, much less something like this. "Why tell me?" she asked finally.

"You care for him," he said. "And I think you may have some influence over him, if you choose to use it, so I would not have you misunderstand my reasons."

"Influence?" she said, startled. "Well, first, I wouldn't try to influence him, 'cause I have no idea what the right thing to do is. And second, influence? What makes you think so?"

Aragorn glanced at her sideways, then paused. Finally he nodded towards Boromir's shadowy silhouette, and said, "He stands alone. Gondor's favored son is much alone, though his men love him - and he them - and the maidens of Minas Tirith would flock to him like songbirds if he but held out his hand." Aragorn regarded his comrade's form thoughtfully, and continued, "Though he never lacks for company if he desires it, there are few whom he seeks out. Yet he sought you," Aragorn said, his eyes turning to Maggie. "At Helm's Deep, when we found you were not within the Wall, Boromir sought for you among the refugees, among the soldiers. And I saw him restrain himself from going to you when we returned from the enemy's defeat. He was needed at counsel, but any could tell that what thoughts he could spare were with you." Maggie didn't know how to respond, and finally Aragorn continued, "He is troubled tonight, lady. He might find ease in your presence."

Finally getting the point, she started to stand, but then paused and turned to Aragorn. "Have you told him what you told me just now? about your real reason for wanting him with you?"

"I have," he said.

"Would he mind that you told me?"

"I do not know," Aragorn replied, "but I cannot believe so. Boromir values honesty, and had I told you all the follies of his youth, I think he would not take it too amiss." He paused, and smiled. "Not so amiss as to bring us to blows, at least."

She smiled at him, then turned and walked to where Boromir was. He heard her approach and she felt his body incline towards her, so slightly, as she reached him. "Hiya," she said.

He was looking at the riverbed. "Here," he said quietly, "the Isen used to flow as clear as any river in an Elven glade. Fast and cold the water ran," he said, "and now, bare stone and the bodies of fish who could not escape their world's calamity." He shook his head. "What has happened here?" he said, and the sadness in his voice made her throat ache.

She slipped her arm through his. She didn't know what to say. She didn't know if it could be made right, or what "right" would even come to, if they did. She didn't know if the river would flow again; right now, she didn't even know if the sun would rise in the morning. Finally she said softly, "If anyone can find a way to fix it, it'll be the Fellowship. You, and Aragorn, and Gandalf - you can make things right if anyone can."

He sighed. "If the Ringbearer succeeds," he said, "then perhaps."

"Believe it," she replied. "You'll succeed, and he'll succeed," she said, "and the world will come back. It will." They stood quietly together for a long time before she said at last, "Aragorn told me why he really wants you to come to Minas Tirith." He nodded, but didn't speak. "I - is it okay with you?" she asked. "That I know, and that that's why he wants you there?"

"That you know? of course," he said, and squeezed her hand lightly. "That this is why he asks me to forsake the path that calls to me for his own? He is my captain, my brother in arms," said Boromir. "And he is my king. I would do what he would have me do."

After a moment she said softly, "Well, yes, but that wasn't really the question."

"He is my king - " Boromir began, anger coloring his voice, and then hesitated. "He is Isildur's heir, yes," he said, his tone now thoughtful, "but that is blood, not proof of fitness to rule." There was a long silence, and she waited. Finally, he continued, "He has wisdom. Courage. He has led us this far." Still gazing into the distance. "He is not without flaws, but no man is, and he is more worthy of respect, of loyalty, than many I have served with before." He hesitated again. "He - I believe he is correct, in his thinking. I do forget our larger purpose when Minas Tirith is at need. I am not certain that he forgets the needs of the people, himself, but I believe that he fears to, and that my presence is a help to him, for whatever reason." They stood quietly, the starlight gleaming dully on the stones of the dry riverbed. "My heart is in conflict," Boromir said finally, "but I know my duty, and I do believe that Aragorn is worthy of it. I will go where he asks. He has my trust, I think, and my sword, I know." He was silent again for a long while, then finally turned to her. "Maggie," he said, "what happened to you during the battle?"

She didn't look at him. "I don't think I want to talk about it," she said.

He touched her chin, raising her gaze to his. "I think it would be better if you did," he replied, his voice, his touch, all gentleness.

She shook her head. "It's nothing," she said. "Nothing like what you've dealt with, or others have."

"Nor like anything you have dealt with before, I think," he replied. "Let me help you bear this. No soldier should have to keep the horrors of the battlefield locked in his own heart." He stroked her hair. "It will fester," he said, "and you will feel it far longer than the wounds to your body."

"It was a battle," she said irritably. "Bad things happen. Which one do you want to hear about?"

"The one that haunts your eyes," he said. "The one that brought you to your knees in the hallway of the Deep."

She snorted. "So Legolas told you about that, huh? Damned Elf."

"He is concerned for you," said Boromir, his voice still gentle. "He knows something troubles your heart, and he would have you unburden yourself to one you trust." He hesitated, then said, "He thought perhaps I might be such a one."

"Oh?" and she felt fear make her voice disbelieving, but didn't know how to change it, and she didn't know why she was so afraid to tell him, unless it was the feeling that if she did, she'd start to cry, and if she started, she'd never stop, and that he'd shun her for her weakness. Anger was easier than grief, and when she looked at Boromir now she saw every man she'd ever trusted, who had betrayed that trust. "Why would he think that?" bitterness like stones in her voice.

He frowned. "You ask for my faith, but will not give it in return? I have told you that I doubt my _king_, and you will not tell me if you doubt yourself?" His hand on her cheek. "Come, lady," he said, "what reason do you have to mistrust me?"

She felt a glib, angry answer on her tongue and bit it back, felt something welling in her throat. She had wished for this, had wished for this man to be for her all the things the others had promised and failed, but now, faced with it, she found her heart was held in ice. "I - I don't mistrust you," she said hesitatingly. "I mistrust _everyone_."

"Ah, a lonely world you must inhabit," he said gently, and she choked on a bitter laugh.

"You have no idea," she said.

"Then tell me."

She shook her head. "It's just, there've been a lot of men who wanted me to trust them," she said, "and when I've done it, it's usually been a mistake." She paused. "I like them, they like me, I trust them, give myself to them, and then they leave me." She shrugged. "It makes it hard to want to try it again."

There was a long silence, and she heard the murmur of the wind over the stones of the riverbed, the soft sounds of horses and wakeful men in the darkness far behind them. Finally he said, "Then I must thank them," and she looked up at him, confusion showing on her face. His eyes were fixed on hers. "For though I now have the task of opening your heart, they have left it free for me to open, if I can. They have left it free for one who can see it, and will cherish it, if he can but claim it." She looked away again, tears pricking her eyes, and he turned her face towards him again, though her eyes remained downcast. "But if you will not yet trust me as a man," he said gently, "trust me as a soldier. Trust me as your Captain. Tell me what shadow is on your heart; I will not falter."

In his voice she felt the safety of her teammates, she felt the solid strength of people who fight together, who hold one another's lives in their hands. And there, she trusted him. So she told him. As she did, she started to cry, and by the time she finished, he could barely make out what she was saying, but enough to understand. He pulled her close, and she pressed her body against him, his arms around her and the scent of leather and horses and his skin comforting her. "And - and - I don't know how to make it better," she said at last, through her tears. "I don't know how to undo it, I don't know how to fix what's wrong. He'd have killed me - he'd have killed _you_ if he could have, if you'd been there, but I can't stop seeing his face, and I can't stop feeling like -" remembering the bitter taste of joy in her mouth when she'd fired, and felt his body jerk and die beneath her - "like a monster."

He stroked her hair, holding her tightly. "Oh, my sweet," he murmured, "my young warrior, there are no easy answers, but give it time.... Time will heal you," he said, "time will heal you." And as they stood there in the quiet, shadowed darkness, they heard far away the whisper of water against stone. It grew louder, and they looked to the river bed, Boromir still holding her in his arms, as the whisper turned to a rush. As they watched, the river swept past, white foam dancing at the fore as if it celebrated its own return, and when it passed, the water glimmered silver in the pale light from the stars, chuckling and burbling over the stones as if it had never gone.


	6. Divergent Roads

I don't own any part of LOTR and I'm certainly making no money from this, but I'm more grateful to Mr. Tolkien than I can say for creating such a rich world that so many people want to engage with it themselves. [See previous chapters for other disclaimers.] 

This has proven to be the hardest chapter to write so far, though I'm not sure why. I'm not altogether sure it works, but I wanted to get it posted, because the longer I work on it, the less sure I am of whether it works, and the more stuck I get thinking of how I can get to where I need to go next. I need to get it off my computer or I may get too stuck to continue.

Big thanks to all of you who've reviewed this! It really helps me to keep writing it (thanks also to Nazgul, for whom I have no email address - knowing that other Boromir fans think I'm getting his character right, to say nothing of the others, makes me feel really good). I hope you're all still reading and enjoying it, and that you'll let me know if things go too far astray. :)

**An End To Innocence**

**Chapter Six: Divergent Roads**

The smell was overpowering, an acrid stench of smoke, burned metal, and the uncertain filth that the waters had washed out and brought to the surface from the depths of Isengard's caverns. The bodies of Orcs, Men, and other creatures that Maggie didn't recognize floated here and there in the shallow lake that had been green fields before Saruman turned it into a nightmare of stone, and chains, and fiery pits. The walls were in ruins, the gates torn and twisted. In the center of the lake stood the enormous tower, Orthanc, an obsidian dagger thrusting into the grey sky, which seemed to bleed haze and smoke where it was cut.

Gandalf and Théoden had ridden off to find an Ent called Treebeard, leaving the rest of them to wonder over the very existence of Ents - walking trees, legends out of the most distant past, capable of destroying such a monstrous place as Isengard with hardly more effort than children tearing apart cardboard. Maggie stood near the archway, reluctant to enter that shadowy passage towards the water, holding Annin's reins and absently stroking the horse's neck. The lake ahead of her shone like polished pewter in the ashen light. Gimli, Legolas, and the Hobbits had gone in search of anything edible, though Maggie didn't expect they'd have much luck. Boromir and Aragorn had climbed to top of what was left of the wall, and she watched them where they stood silhouetted against the grey sky. She was so tired she felt as though she drifted, holding to her mount, weightless and insubstantial, and she gazed at the two men because they were the last thing in this wasted landscape to move.

"Christ," said Mira from beside her, "what the hell happened here?" Maggie turned, slowly, and saw the smaller woman, who strode towards her and flung her arms around Maggie, kissing her cheek. "We couldn't find you," she said.

Maggie blinked, and felt as though she were coming up out of a dream. "Oh," she murmured, "Mira, the walkie-talkie - it - "

"Not that," said Mira, shaking her head. "I mean we couldn't find you, like, at all - not even enough to get here. We got the stuff just fine - not yesterday but the day before - and we were going to bring it right over, but Janet kept getting all this interference, and never could get a fix on you. She said it was like trying to grab one specific fish from a bucket full of fish just like it. We didn't want to come, under the circumstances."

"That's good," Maggie said softly. "You must have been trying during the battle. It wou - it wouldn't have been good."

"It looks like it was a helluva fight," said Mira, gazing around and wrinkling her nose at the smell.

Maggie shook her head. "Not here. Helm's Deep. We got sidetracked. I - there - " she hesitated, then didn't finish.

Mira stroked her back. "Poor sweetie," she said, frowning. "Maybe we should have come on anyway."

"No," she snapped, then put her hand to her face. "No," more gently, "no, it was just, way too bad." Quick intake of breath, remembering, her eyes closed, and she shook her head and said, "You probably wouldn't have been able to find me anyway. Too many people. Anyway, that was Helm's Deep. This is Isengard."

"Yeah?" Mira paused. "Well, what happened here? It sure _looks_ like a war zone." She hesitated, then said, her voice light but tense, "I guess if this was our guy back home, then - well, we'd have noticed a difference."

"I don't know," Maggie said thoughtfully. "I don't think he's dead. I think he's in the tower, and I don't think they're going to kill him or he'd probably be dead already. But it still doesn't help us know whether he's our guy."

Mira chuckled. "And we can't try to find out without risking blinking out of existence ourselves by changing - something or other. Oh," she said suddenly, "I brought you a present." She unshouldered a small knapsack and opened it to Maggie's gaze. "Ammo," she said with a smile, "for the Glocks. I thought you might've run out, so I went ahead and brought it with me."

Maggie smiled back. "Oh, Mira" she said, " you clever girl. Thank you." She took Mira's arm and the two started towards the gates, Maggie leading Annin. "Mira," she said, "three years ago, when you had to ... when you had to kill that guy who'd broken into your apartment," and Maggie could feel her friend grow tense, "how long did it take before you... I mean, are you...."

"Over it?" Mira asked. Maggie nodded. "Well, I guess that depends on what you mean," she said. "He didn't give me a choice, so in that respect I was over it before I did it, or I don't know if I'd have been able to." She paused. "But then, I still dream about it sometimes, or I'll see someone, something, that reminds me of it. And I'll feel, scared again, or - angry, or sorry. Not that I killed him exactly, but that he - that things worked out that way." She shook her head. "That Methamp26 was nasty shit - thank god that trend's over. I wish I could have killed his dealer instead." She sighed, and continued, "So in that, I'm not really over it still. But if you mean," she said, glancing at Maggie, "how long will it be before you get over killing someone, sweetie, I don't know. What happened?"

But by then they'd arrived at the archway, where Aragorn and Boromir had seen them and come down from the wall. "Welcome back, lady," said Aragorn. "What news? Are your comrades well?"

Mira nodded. "We got the shipment without so much as a scrape." She smiled. "It's amazing how far a few promises, a little magic, and a minimal amount of cash will take you with people who don't have any scruples to start with."

"So what's in this shipment?" asked Maggie. "What have we got?" Mira pulled a printout from her pocket and handed it to Maggie, who skimmed it quickly. "Heckler and Koch, Colt..." she murmured, "submachine guns, sniper rifles, grenade launchers, carbines..." her eyes moving quickly over the paper, while Boromir and Aragorn waited, and Mira watched Annin, who regarded her calmly. "This is pretty impressive," she said, handing it back to Mira. "Any thoughts on how we're going to handle training?"

Mira smiled. "Get this," she said. "When we talked to Michael, he said he'd talked to this friend of his, Chip, who's been running his cell since he left it. Michael told him what was going on, and Chip _volunteered_ to come with five of his guys to train people."

Maggie blinked. "You - you're kidding." Mira shook her head. "Okay," Maggie said, frowning, "now that's just weird. I mean, that he didn't think Michael was a lunatic in the first place, and then that he'd want to come along for the ride? what?"

"Well, not the whole ride," said Mira. "They've got, like, four, maybe five days they can spare, though they're pretty flexible on which days. But they're just going to do minimal training - that's all."

Maggie frowned. "But why in god's name - and what's he getting out of it? Does he just have that much faith in Michael's basic sanity? that much altruism?"

"Not so much that," she said, "as that apparently he already knew about this Sorrow guy. They've been trying to figure out what to do about him for a few months now, ever since Chip's sister's boyfriend got himself involved in that bunch of wizards and went off the deep end."

"What do you mean?" asked Maggie. "Involved how? what deep end?" Neither woman paid any mind to the two men watching them.

"Apparently he wanted to be a big man, wanted to do the whole wizarding thing, and he'd heard Sorrow was the guy to see. But Sorrow's just basically draining them all, using their power to augment his own, and they're all just wasting away. Like walking skeletons, but totally loyal to Sorrow. Chip's sister is really freaked out about it - her boyfriend doesn't even talk to her anymore; she's not sure he knows who she is - and Chip wants to fix it. He figures, he helps us take out the baddies here, we'll help him deal with Sorrow there. Sort of a back-scratching thing." Mira caught Maggie's uncertain glance and shook her head quickly. "We did not tell him that, we didn't even imply it, I promise."

Maggie shrugged. "Well, okay. If he wants to. Here's hoping he's right."

"Listen," said Mira, glancing at her watch, "I told Janet to give me about twenty minutes and then bring me back, so I can tell her whether we should come now with the stuff."

Maggie caught sight of Boromir and Aragorn out of the corner of her eye and remembered that there were others to be consulted. She turned to them, and said, "We've got a lot of weapons and ammo, and, in a strange and unexpectedly convenient turn, six people ready to come and train you and your soldiers on these weapons."

"And two trucks," Mira added.

Maggie glanced at her. "Two trucks," she said, and looked back at the men. "And two trucks."

"And Jack's motorcycle."

Maggie turned to her. "Jack's bike, too?" she said. "So two trucks and a motorcycle - any more vehicles?"

"Two Land Rovers if we want them."

"Gasoline?"

Mira nodded. "But it would take an awful lot if we used all the vehicles. The trucks get pretty good mileage for trucks, but once we get the stuff here we'll do better to let the men carry the weapons, and if we want vehicles, just take the bike and one of the Land Rovers."

Maggie turned back to the men. "Gasoline is what the vehicles run on - it's a weakness akin to the guns' ammunition problem. Without it, they're just big ugly hunks of metal."

Boromir made a sound. "Is there anything in your world that does not share this weakness?"

"Not much," she said, consulting the printout in her hand, then continued, "So, we have a bunch of firearms, a bunch of ammo, some grenades - those are like explosives," she explained, "like that thing y'all said blew a hole in the wall at Helm's Deep, only not so powerful. And some vehicles - trucks, that I told y'all about, and optional Land Rovers, which are sort of like trucks but prettier and more comfortable, and the motorcycle, which either Mira or Jack or I can ride, and which can carry a passenger as well." No one spoke, so she went on, "There are disadvantages either way. If we wait until we get to where we're going, it's possible something will go wrong and we won't be able to get them over at all. For instance," she said,"if no one from our world is alive here by then." She didn't look at any of them when she said it. "On the other hand," she continued, "if we bring them over now, we'll have to get everything - _everything_ - to wherever we're going. That's a big risk, to equipment and to people. We could hit impassable terrain, or enemy troops, we could run out of gas, have some kind of mechanical breakdown - there could be a number of problems. So," she said, clapping her hands together, wondering if either man had the slightest idea what she was talking about. "I think it'd be best if we took our chances and waited, rather than getting them here and trying to take so much equipment and people to - " and she paused. "Um. Where are we going?"

Aragorn glanced at Boromir, whose eyes were fixed on the featureless ground some distance away, then said, "We go to Dunharrow to rally the army of the Mark, and from there to Minas Tirith." He paused, then continued, "However, it might serve us well for you and Boromir to ride together to Minas Tirith straight away and gather your comrades. We will follow from Dunharrow with what army we can muster." Boromir looked at his companion, surprised, and Aragorn met his gaze. "It would do your father and Faramir good to see you," he said, "and your men. They need you. You can do much good there," and he nodded to Maggie, "and there you'll be able to see to the training of Gondor's soldiers in these new weapons."

Boromir's eyes had widened as Aragorn spoke, and his expression was one of both delight and dismay. "But my - " and he hesitated. "Aragorn," he said finally, "I... would not leave the company while you have need of me."

Aragorn reached out and pressed his hand to Boromir's shoulder. "I will miss your presence, friend," he said, "but there is more need for you to go to Minas Tirith. You, of us all, have the best chance to bring Maggie safely there, and they will be looking for your return from the White Tower. There will be no delay if you are with her, but with another, there would be questions, mistrust." He shook his head. "No, you and she will go to Minas Tirith and begin training Gondor's soldiers. We will rally the Rohirrim, and will come there as soon as we can." Boromir nodded, but Maggie could feel the strain in him, though whether to protest, or thank Aragorn, or both, couldn't tell.

After a moment's silence, she said, "Good then," then turned to Mira and continued."Tell Janet to wait. We'll be there in -" she glanced at Boromir, "how long?"

Boromir considered briefly. "If we do not linger too long here, nightfall of the fourth day hence."

She turned back to Mira. "Four days from now, nightfall our time." She paused. "Have we figured out the time difference yet?"

Mira nodded. "You're ahead by about seven hours. We'll do the math. Four days from now, nightfall your time."

"All right. One of you come, just like this time, 'cause we'll be in a city; we'll figure out how and where to bring the stuff then. Sound good?"

"Yup." Mira glanced at her watch again, then at Aragorn and Boromir, then back at Maggie. "Walk with me?" she said.

Maggie nodded, and the two women started back towards the spot where Mira had arrived. When they'd gotten a little distance away, Maggie said, "So what's up, sweetie?"

"Hey, do you want to take one of the Land Rovers? It'd be quicker than horseback."

Maggie shook her head. "Nah, I don't think so. I don't know what the country's like between here and there, and - well, say there's a big river and the only bridge is horse-width. Y'know? And no one here will be able to tell us whether the Land Rover could make it, they don't know what those things can or can't do." She glanced at her friend. "But that's not why you wanted to talk to me alone, is it?"

Mira squeezed her arm, then took Maggie's hand in hers and held it. "I just wondered if you're okay. What you asked me earlier, and... well, this whole thing is just so weird."

"I don't think about that," said Maggie with a small smile. "If I thought about it, I'd decide I was probably crazy, and then I wouldn't be able to get anything done for wondering whether I'm in a padded cell somewhere."

Mira chuckled. "You're not, babe," she said. "But," and she hesitated, stopped where she was and turned Maggie to face her. "What's going on, sweetheart? Why did you ask me how long it took me to get over it?"

Maggie shrugged. "It was - there was - another part of Théoden's army, or - or his allies or something, were retreating to Helm's Deep, this big - fortress thing in a mountain. The enemy's forces were following, so Théoden took the company there to help." She paused, then shook her head. "There was a - what I thought was an Orc, during the first skirmish, while we were trying to hold them back from the fortress. I fell off my horse, he tried to - hurt me. He would have killed me. I - my arm was fucked up, I couldn't aim very well. I had the knives. It was ... messy. I shot him, in the leg I think. I cut him, but I couldn't kill him, I kept missing and just getting - soft parts." She hesitated, but Mira didn't speak, just kept holding her hand, stroking it gently. "I got him to the ground," Maggie went on finally, "took the mount. He was too strong, though, he started to sit up so I st-" her voice hitched and she closed her eyes briefly, then went on, "I stabbed his throat to push him back down, and then I shot him in the face." She felt the tears coming again, and let them. "But he wasn't an Orc, Mira, he was a man. An enemy, but a man. Though I don't know what difference that should make - Orcs aren't animals, even if they are kinda freakish-looking and mean." She hesitated, then said, "And it felt - Mira, god help me, it felt good." She looked at her friend. "It felt - it felt like - it felt like when you get a big, deep scrape, and it gets infected, and you yank the scab off to get the puss out, and it's disgusting and gross and it hurts like hell, but it feels good too, the pain and getting that nasty shit out of your body. It felt like that, only a million times more." She stopped. "And - and the nasty shit isn't out yet. I think there's more of it." Her breath caught in her throat. "He tried to hurt me, and I killed him for it, and it felt good," closing her eyes. Her voice low as a whisper, tight as a bowstring, "What the hell _am_ I?"

"Tell me something, baby," said Mira, still holding her hand. "If he hadn't been trying to kill you, do you think you would have shot him? Do you think you would you have killed him just for hurting you?"

Maggie shook her head.

"Right. You didn't kill him for trying to hurt you, you killed him because if you hadn't, you'd be dead now." She reached up and stroked her friend's hair. "It was your lizard brain, baby," she said gently, "that primitive part taking over because it had to keep you from dying. It's not you, it's just a part of you, like it's a part of all of us. It's just the lizard brain, keeping you alive, like it's supposed to."

Maggie nodded, pushing the tears away with one hand. "It just...." She sighed. "Well," she said after a moment, getting as much brightness into her voice as she could, and smiling shakily, "it did give me the chance to let Boromir be all manly and comforting."

Mira laughed. "And how is he with that?"

"Oh," Maggie raised her eyes to the sky, "he's... just... great with that." She looked at Mira again, who leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

"Let him be good to you," she said with a smile, and then she took a step back, and was gone.

Maggie stood quietly for a moment, then turned and walked back to where Aragorn and Boromir waited with Annin. The dull mirror that was the lake of Isengard far behind them shone through the arch where the gates used to hang, lighting the men darkly, their faces shadowed. Standing so close together, silhouetted by the ashen glow, their shadows seemed to melt into each other where their bodies almost touched, one dark force, halo'd by the pale light of Saruman's defeat.

They fed and watered their mounts, then ate quickly themselves before saying their goodbyes to the company. Boromir seemed awkward with Aragorn as they spoke, unsure how to address this man who had not yet been crowned his king, but to whom he'd already submitted his will, in front of others, and who was by no means merely his comrade. Aragorn seemed only slightly more sure of himself, clasping Boromir's hand, then pulling him into a rough embrace. "Ride hard, friend," he said as they released each other. "The land is covered in shadow, and a darker shadow approaches. You must reach Minas Tirith." Aragorn started to step back, but then, suddenly, reached up and gripped the back of the other man's neck, hard. Boromir started, but didn't pull away. "Be alive when I reach you," Aragorn said, his voice harsh, and raw, then he leaned close, but the soft words carried in the still air. "I thought by my failure I had killed you once, at Amon Hen; be yet alive when I come to you at the White City. I will not tarry."

Boromir nodded once, clasping his hand over Aragorn's. "I will," he said. "I swear it."

They rode the rest of that day and far into the night. Maggie had lost all track of time, and had no idea how late it was - past midnight? close to dawn? She couldn't tell. She held on to Annin as well as she could, but after long hours with no indication of stopping, she called out to him, "Boromir, can we rest, please? just for a little while?"

He reined in Hannûn and turned his mount to meet her, as Annin came to a gentle halt. Maggie felt near tears, exhausted, wishing she'd taken Mira up on the offer of the Land Rover. Boromir shook his head. "A little further, my lady," he said gently, but she could hear impatience beneath his soft tone. "We cannot stop in open land. Ahead is a place I know, a cave my brother and I found some years ago. We will rest there." She leaned heavily on the pommel of her saddle and nodded, and Boromir made a small sound. "You must stay wakeful," he said. "I cannot have you injuring yourself in a fall."

"I won't," she said tiredly. "I'm not much of a rider, yet, but Annin's only let me fall once, and that was when an Orc was trying to take her reins. I would have reared up too."

He patted Annin's neck, then swung himself up into his saddle again. "Ride now," he said. "We'll stop within the hour."

The cave, when they came to it, had a tall, narrow entrance, hidden by vines and undergrowth. Boromir lit a torch and went in alone; when he'd determined that the space was free of snakes or other dangers, they led the horses in, and she was surprised to find how large it was inside, the ground sloping gently downward into to a shallow bowl. Boromir pulled the vines and brush back over the entrance, then set about lighting a small fire. "Faramir and I have slept here on more than one occasion," he said, "on the road between Minas Tirith and Edoras. It shows no light from the outside, it's big enough to conceal our mounts, and only on close inspection does the entrance reveal itself." He paused, unbuckling his sword belt and laying it on the ground beside him. "We only found it because Faramir's favorite dog chased after a fox, and the animal ran in here. Faramir came chasing the dog, and I came after Faramir." He smiled to himself. "A fine parade," he said softly.

"Did the dog catch the fox?" Maggie asked, sitting down wearily.

Boromir glanced up. "Hmm? Oh, no. The fox was too clever. Faramir found the dog snuffing about a crevice in the back of the cave," and he nodded towards the shadowed south wall. "The beast must have slipped out into another part of the caves, and escaped."

"That's nice," she said, and lay back.

He chuckled, and crossed to her. "Come lady, you cannot rest easy thus." He unbuckled the gun belt around her waist and she sat up to take it off, then he helped her with the braces on her arms, the leather and chain corslet. When they were off, he set about removing his own cloak and the armor beneath it, and she watched him in much the same way she'd watched him with Aragorn on the wall the previous day, as the last thing to catch her tired gaze. The armor came off to reveal the rough tunic beneath, and beneath that, cotton shirt, stained, with a tear at the shoulder, but embroidered with a pale and delicate pattern of leaves at the throat and cuff. "It's safe enough," he said, glancing at her. "We'll rest here the day, and ride again at nightfall."

"Day?" she said, looking towards the entrance of the cave.

"It's near dawn, my lady," he replied with a smile. "I'm loathe to travel in the day, now," he went on, tugging off one of his boots. "The enemy is in these lands," starting on the other, "and though no great force is yet come this far from the East, I'd hate to see the two of us try to hold off even a small company of Uruk-hai."

"Mmm, indeed," she murmured, lying back again, and closing her eyes.

She woke gradually, first to warmth, then to the soft press of another body to hers, then to Boromir's steady breathing, light on the back of her neck, his arm across her waist. He held her gently, his cloak covering them both. As carefully as she could, she turned beneath his arm, opened her eyes to his sleeping face. He stirred slightly, but didn't wake, and she lay there for some time, smiling softly, considering him in the dim light that filtered into the cave from the day outside. Eyes half-lidded, she didn't notice when he opened his, didn't see him as he watched her. After a while, he brought his hand up to touch her hair, and she met his gaze. "I thought you would not mind my presence," he said. "I hope I am not too presumptuous."

She smiled and shook her head, touched a finger to his lips. "It's been a long time since I slept with someone beside me. It's nice." Then she realized what she'd said, what it implied, and what kind of world Boromir seemed to be from, what society. She didn't imagine women here did things like that, much less confessed it, and she felt a little chill pass over her skin, and dropped her eyes.

He kissed her forehead, and said softly, "For me as well. The nights can be lonely, but not so lonely as when they're shared with one for whom you do not care." He turned her onto her back and kissed her mouth lightly, then again, still gentle, but with more insistence. She opened her lips to his, felt her body rise beneath him as she breathed in his breath, slipping her arms around his waist. "You are a marvel to me, Maggie Dunshay," he said, his voice low, his grey eyes locked on her blue ones. "So strong in battle, so quick to command when need dictates, yet so soft and yielding in affection." She tried to smile, but the irony of what he said, how much he didn't know, crushed it, and she turned her face from him. He didn't allow it for long, though, and cupping her cheek in his hand, he turned her back to him. "What is it, sweet? Tell me."

She couldn't meet his gaze. "It's the soft and yielding that gets me in trouble," she said. "Do you remember how I told you my love affairs are usually that I give myself to someone, and then he leaves?"

"I do," he said gently.

"Well, when I said, 'give myself' I didn't mean just my heart." She tried to turn her head again but his hand still held her. "I mean, it's - it's after we - after that, that the men in my life tend to leave. I know it's not because I'm no good, 'cause most of them come back wanting more of that. It's the rest of me they don't want." She hesitated, but he didn't speak, his thumb softly stroking her cheek. "I think I give it up too soon," she said finally. "Too 'soft and yielding'. I guess they figure if it were worth having, they'd have to work a little harder for it."

He frowned, and after a moment said, "A man who would lie with a woman, but desire her less because she lay with him, is no man, but a child. A child who has not yet learned that his mother is also a woman, and no less to be cherished because she desired his father, nor his lovers less to be cherished for following their own desires into his arms." He stroked her hair back from her forehead, letting his gaze travel over her face, and she felt it as though he touched her where he gazed. "I am no such child," he said. "Nor does when, or whether, you choose to lie with me have any bearing on my regard for you," and he paused, looking back into her eyes, "nor on my affection. Whether you lie with me now, or months from now, or never, that remains."

"So - you don't think I'm... I mean, you don't think - " she hesitated, and he smiled, and touched her lips with his fingers.

"I think you are brave," he said, "and honorable, and valiant." He stroked her lips, slipped his fingers over her temple and into her dark hair. "I think you have eyes like the blue of the sky on a summer evening," he went on, "and a heart as vast; skin like the first bloom of a white crocus in winter, and a heart as pure and full of hope." He kissed her again, lingeringly this time, and barely raising his lips from hers, he whispered, "You have the beauty of a goddess in your heart, and though the enemy were waiting outside with sword and spear and fire, and had you had a hundred lovers before me, I would not be anywhere this moment but here, with you."

She brought her hand to his face, her fingers lightly tracing the line of his cheek, of his strong jaw, his ear, and he closed his eyes, a soft sigh escaping his lips. With her other hand she touched his throat, slipped her fingers around the curve of his neck, pulled him close and kissed him, took his lower lip between gentle teeth, kissed him again, and then with a soft pressure on his shoulder she reversed their postures, she now resting on his chest. She stroked his eyebrows, his cheek, kissed the corner of his eye, felt his lids flutter like moths beneath her touch. "You know the right things to say," she murmured.

He breathed in as she kissed his throat. "I do not merely speak the words," he said, reproach beneath the arousal she could hear in his voice.

"Shhh," she whispered, "I know." She gazed at his face, traced with her fingertip the soft hollows beneath his eyes, touched his lashes. She could feel him trembling, and she wondered what she'd done to make this man, this warrior, so vulnerable. She smiled gently. "You tremble," she said. "Am I so fearsome?" and he laughed to hear her say his own words back to him.

Opening his eyes he smiled at her. "It has been long since I felt a gentle touch," he murmured, raising his hands to her shoulders, and then without warning he toppled her over onto her back, and was rewarded with a startled yelp and a giggle as she flung her arms around him. "But you are not too fearsome for a soldier of Gondor to conquer," he said with a grin, capturing her wrists with his hands and pressing them to the ground, covering her mouth with his. She gasped, then returned the kiss, which became more insistent, and she met his growing ferocity with her own. Her arousal spiked as he took both her wrists in one of his hands, and stroked the other down the length of her body to her hip, and back up, slipping beneath the blouse she wore, and she sighed into him. He raised his head, her wrists still pinned, and smiled as she writhed beneath his exploring touch. "You are a marvel," he whispered. "Open your eyes, look at me."

She obeyed, and the desire on her face was evident - she could feel the lust in her eyes, saw the answering passion in his. "Boromir," she said with a soft moan as his fingers teased over her stomach, "please...." She pulled against his imprisoning hands, relishing the strength that held her. She would not escape unless he let her, and she knew he would only let her escape if she wanted him to.

"'Please' what, my lady?" he asked, still smiling, and she struggled to reclaim her hands so she could touch him. His fingers were maddening, tracing circles on her abdomen and making the skin shiver, and she squirmed under him. "Please don't tease you?" he asked, continuing to do so. "Please touch you here?" his fingers sliding upwards, and she moaned, closing her eyes again. "I told you to look at me," he said, pinching her skin lightly, and she whimpered. "Don't disobey me, my captive." She looked at him and he was smiling still, and he leaned forward to kiss her again. She pressed into the kiss, her body rising, hands still trapped, and he whispered into her mouth, "Please what?"

"Please," she gasped, "I want you."

"Here, in the cold cave? You wouldn't rather wait for the silken sheets of Minas Tirith?" She heard humor in his voice, and she shook her head.

"It's not cold," she said. "And all the silk I need is you. Please, Boromir...." She turned her face and kissed his forearm, pressing her lips to the only part of him she could reach. "I want to touch you. I want - " she hesitated and looked at him, and he gazed back at her with desire and affection. "We don't know what'll happen between here and Minas Tirith," she said. "I want this. You. Now, while we can, while we're safe, even if it is in a cave in the middle of a war. Let me touch you."

He hesitated only a moment, then released her wrists and kissed her softly as she wrapped her arms around him, the kiss growing more urgent, and in the dim light of the cave they claimed each others' bodies for their own.


	7. Conversations On The Road To Minas Tirit...

I don't own any part of LOTR and I'm certainly making no money from this, but I'm more grateful to Mr. Tolkien than I can say for creating such a rich world that so many people want to engage with it themselves. [See previous chapters for other disclaimers.] 

This is a short chapter (well, for me at least), but it came to an ending spot, and I didn't like continuing after the chapter insisted it was done. As always, reviews are much appreciated.

**An End To Innocence**

**Chapter Seven: Conversations On The Road To Minas Tirith**

They rode, stopping only to water the horses, from before dusk until after sunrise, when Boromir brought them to a narrow cleft in the rocks. It led through a short, winding fissure into a grassy area, open to the sky high above, but hidden from sight. "Another find of yours and Faramir's?" asked Maggie as they led the horses into the clearing.

Boromir smiled. "Faramir's alone," he replied. "When he was a child." They set about removing their mounts' tack as he continued. "We'd been sparring," he said, "and Faramir accidentally blacked my eye. He and our father had one of their," he hesitated, "disagreements about the matter." He paused, and Maggie saw the dark look that clouded his features, but it passed quickly. "You know how children are," he said with a small smile. "Faramir decided to run away. I went to call him for supper, and found his things in disarray, so I ran to the stables and discovered his horse gone. I knew he'd be riding west, towards Rohan - there was a daughter of the Mark he'd become friends with, and he'd turned to her before when he felt ill-used by Denethor and estranged from me." He heaved Hannûn's saddle off and lay it gently on the ground, then went on. "I rode after him, of course," he said, "but he'd been gone for some hours by the time I realized he was missing. I rode for two days, and as I was passing by here, he called my name." Boromir chuckled. "If he hadn't heard my horse and looked out to see who came, or if he'd decided I was as much to blame for his misery as our father, I might have ridden all the way to Edoras only to find him still missing."

Maggie smiled. "So what did your father do when you got back?"

He looked away. "Denethor is a good Steward," he said, "but as a father, I might wish him different." Maggie settled Annin's saddle on the ground beside the other, and went to where Boromir stood, brushed his hair back from his forehead. He hesitated, then looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "He punished Faramir," he said softly, "for causing me to be away so long."

Maggie made a small sound. "Lovely," she said. "That must have made you feel great."

"Oh, indeed," he said with a wry smile. "And to worsen matters, he forbade me from seeing Faramir during his punishment, so my younger brother spent a week confined to his room alone. But I did contrive," he said, raising a finger and grinning, "to slip him notes, as well as dessert _every_ night, and to return to him writing paper and his favorite book, which Denethor had confiscated as part of the punishment."

Maggie laughed. "You're a good brother," she said, kissing his cheek.

"Faramir is a good brother," he said, smiling at her and starting to unfasten her corslet. "I only endeavor to be worthy of him." Between them, they got first her armor, and then his, off, putting it with the saddles. He picked up their cloaks and his own sword then, and took her hand, leading her a little way from the horses and drawing her down to the ground beside him. "Faramir wasn't even angry with me," he said, then continued thoughtfully, "He grew into a fine man. I've often wondered whether he would be a better Steward than either our father or I." He took her foot in his lap then, carefully slipped the knife out of the boot sheath and lay it aside, and began pulling off her boot. "But now of course, it won't matter. The king has returned, and if the office even continues to exist, it will not be in its current form. Neither Faramir nor I will have that worry once Aragorn takes the crown." Removing her sock as well and setting it aside with the boot, he took her other foot and repeated the process. "There," he said, giving her feet a pat, then with an innocent gaze, offered his left foot to her, to de-boot. Laughing, she obliged. When they were both barefooted, he took his cloak and threw it over their feet and legs, the fur soft against her skin, then pulled her into his arms and drew her cloak around them both. "We'll have no fire today," he said. "This isn't so safe as the cave. But it's unseasonably warm, and perhaps we might huddle together against what chill there is."

She chuckled. Gazing up at the cliffs that rose above them, she said, "It does feel a little exposed. Is it safe enough?"

"Aye," he said, "it is. There are few wolves around here, nor would they be interested in human prey. And Orcs don't like to travel rocky paths - as long as there are smooth plains or a wide road to trample, that's where they'll be. The wild men too, if the choice is between that and climbing about these foothills. They loathe the openness of the road and plains, but the paths over the rocks and cliffs here are treacherous; I do not think they risk it much. My brother and I were missed here by a small party of them not long before I left for Rivendell. They won't climb up and happen across our little bower, nor are they likely to see the opening from the ground, nor be inclined to investigate it if they did, unless we did something to alert them to our presence."

"Aw," she said, and grinned. "No noise, then? There go all my plans."

He laughed softly, and pressed a finger to her lips. "Ah, but my lady," he said, slipping his hand down her arm to her wrist in a gentle caress, "it serves my plans well." He stroked the skin of arm, and continued in a thoughtful tone, "I believe I might find it enjoyable to stop your mouth, restrain your struggles, and have my way with you...." She smiled and started to speak, but he pressed his hand over her lips and said, "Shhh... fear not. I shall let no harm come to you," his eyes locked on hers, and her heart surged when he kissed her, as it did each time.

He woke her again when the sun was low in the sky, and after a quick meal of waybread and water, they saddled the horses and led them out into the deepening day. They rode all that night, but this time, rather than stopping shortly after sunrise, he pressed them on further, until they reached the watchtower of Nardol. As they approached, Boromir slowed Hannûn to a walk, and said, "The fires have been lit on all the towers between Firien Wood and Minas Tirith, but no men watch from their walls. This bodes ill...."

"What does it mean?" asked Maggie.

He shook his head. "In all likelihood, it means Gondor despairs of aid, and the men who would have watched the road and kept the fires lit have been called back to help in defense of Minas Tirith and Osgiliath. Come," he said. "We'll stay the day here, and ride again at dusk."

His mood was dark, and she didn't try to pull him out of it with jokes or flirting. Instead, after they ate, she leaned against the wall and pulled him to her, between her knees, his back to her and her arms around him, holding him. She sat quietly, watching the fire that called to Gondor's allies for help, and gently stroked his temples, his eyebrows, humming softly, until she felt some of the unease leave him. After a long time, he captured her hand in his and kissed her fingers. "What is that tune?" he asked.

"I don't remember the words anymore," she said. "It's called 'Over the Hills and Far Away'. My dad used to sing it to me when I was little."

He didn't answer, but held her fingers to his lips for a long time. "I do not know what we will find when we reach my home," he said at last. "My father has been...not himself, and Faramir works too hard to please him. Our people lose faith," he said, "and my father looks to me. And I do not know how to win victory from the shadow that oppresses us."

She heard the grief and uncertainty that thickened his voice, and finally, kissing his hair, she said, "You will make it right, Boromir. You, and the people who stand with you. Faramir, Aragorn," she said, "Gandalf, Gimli, Legolas, the Hobbits. It's as motley a crew as I've ever seen," she said with a smile, "but you _will_ make it right. The Ringbearer will succeed, and so will you. I believe that."

"I do not know how to believe," he said softly, "in the face of all I've seen, all I've done."

"What you've done," she said, "is save Merry and Pippin - and no doubt countless others at Helm's Deep - stand by your king, fight for what you believe in. Fight for your people, for the whole world." She pressed her free hand to his chest, hugging him briefly to her. "Aragorn values you," she said. "_He_ sees you for who and what you are, and he wants you with him."

He shook his head. "I was weak," he said. "I failed Frodo, and my king. Will I fail my people as well?"

"No," she said without hesitation. "And anyway, you didn't fail anyone. Maybe you made a mistake, or maybe it was the power of the Ring, but -"

"To which," he said, looking at her, "Aragorn did not succumb, nor Gandalf."

"And Aragorn's not precisely human, is he?" she said, "not quite like other men? a little bit of Elvish in there? somewhat touched by the gods? And Gandalf is - what, like, a thousand years old? Do you think _maybe_ they had an advantage?"

He closed his eyes. "That is no excuse for the wrong I did."

"All right, fine," she replied, "but that doesn't make everything else you've done meaningless, or mean you're not going to do somewhat more good in the world than you've done not good. And anyway," she went on, "who's to say whether what you did wasn't for the best?"

He opened his eyes again and looked at her as though she were speaking a foreign language.

"I'm serious," she said. "Do you really think that the whole bunch of you could have just strolled into Mordor unnoticed? I'd think Aragorn alone would have set off every alarm in the place just stepping foot into it. But Aragorn never would have let Frodo try alone. You'd have all been captured, the world would have ended, and I'd never have met th - I'd never have met you. Or," she finished, "survived my first week in Middle Earth, I think."

He smiled then, and though it was a small smile, she took it as a good sign. "Well, then I suppose not _all_ I have done has been for ill."

She chuckled. "Far from it."

They rose again in the evening, and before they left, Boromir added fuel to the fire that burned in the watchtower. "It may bring no aid," he said as he mounted Hannûn, "but I dislike the thought of it going out." Then they rode, all that night until well past sunrise before stopping at the watchtower of Amon Dîn. But now Boromir was restless, and she could tell he stopped only because the horses needed rest. He wanted to get home, he wanted to reassure himself that Minas Tirith was still there, still held. She ached to reach out to him, to touch him, do something to ease his tension, but he was strung so tight that she wasn't sure a touch would be welcome. Instead, she sat where she was, leaning against a stone wall, and watched him pace. It was some time before he noticed her watching him, and said, "You need rest, my lady."

"So do you, my lord," she replied.

He stopped then, and turned to her, then strode to where she was and dropped down to his knees in front of her. "Do you know what you say?" he asked her, taking her hands in his and gripping them. "Do you know what it means to have a lord? You, from your strange world? I dare say you've never spoken those words before, nor have I but to my father and Théoden." His eyes were bright, his brow furrowed. "Do you understand them, lady? what they imply?"

The intensity of his gaze alarmed her, but she didn't shrink away. "I - I don't know," she said. "Do I?"

"'Tis not merely a polite address," he said. "Oh, it may be, yes, from one to another, diplomatic or cautious, as mine to Théoden, but that is not - that is not the best of it, nor the worst of it." He cupped her cheek in one hand then, his other still gripping hers, and the look he gave her was so fierce and intimate that for a moment she felt afraid. "Do you know what it will mean," he said, "when I call Isildur's heir, 'my lord'?" His fingers tightened on hers, and he said in a raw voice, "'T'will mean I've surrendered to him - surrendered my city, my country, my _people_ to him." Releasing her he rose suddenly to his feet and turned on his heel, facing the fire that still burned in the watchtower. "'T'will mean I've surrendered myself, my will, to the will of another, to the will of my lord," and the last two words he forced through clenched teeth. "Do not mistake me," he said, his back still to her. "This, I will do. It is - it is commanded of me," he said, "by history, by blood, by my own treacherous heart." He half turned again, as though reluctant to face her. "And yet, I would not do this," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "He is my king by blood. But the blood of my people, spilled in long years when he wandered far from Gondor, never revealing who he is, calls out to me, and - " his voice broke. "Calls out to me, and begs for a king who does not abandon us." He shook his head, putting his hand to his eyes. "Aye, he'll marry the Elf maiden, and his loyalty will not be to Gondor. 'T'will be divided between her and her kin, who raised him, and his own people who need him. And Gondor will suffer for it."

Maggie didn't know what to say, fear gripping her - not of Boromir, but for him. Finally she stood, meaning to go to him, but as she did he faced her fully and stepped back, raising his hand in caution.

"I speak treason, you know," he said, a wry half-smile on his face. "You should not consort with traitors. You'll come to no good end."

Stepping forward she put her hands on his arms. He started to pull away, but she didn't release him. "You speak your heart," she said. "You've said you'll accept him as your king. What kind of - subject, what kind of man would you be if you ignored your own misgivings?"

"A faithful one," he answered.

She shook her head. "Aragorn doesn't need someone to tell him what he wants to hear, or to mouth empty words of hollow patriotism to him," she said. "He needs someone who'll tell him the truth. And the truth is, he _did_ leave Gondor to fend for herself, he _did_ leave your father to be Steward, and you to spend your life training to be Steward after him. It's no wonder you doubt him." She gripped his arms, not quite resisting the urge to shake him. "He needs _you_," she said, "with your doubts, and your anger, and your fears for Gondor. Because with that," she said, looking into his grey eyes, steely in the shadows, "with that, comes your whole heart. Like mine to you. Give him only your love and loyalty, and keep back your honesty," she said, "and he only has half of you. He needs the whole man." She hesitated, then said gently, "It's not treason to doubt, Boromir. It's treason to lie about it. It's loyalty, it's patriotism, to speak your mind, and your heart, regardless."

Boromir met her gaze for a moment longer, then pulled her suddenly into a fierce embrace, and she held him with all the strength she had, and they stood like that, unspeaking, for a long time.

They slept for only a few hours, rose barely past noon, and set off again. "We'll reach the wall before nightfall, and another hour of riding to the gate," said Boromir as they started, and by evening she saw the massive wall that surrounded Minas Tirith and its lands, looming closer as they rode. In front of her, Boromir suddenly wheeled Hannûn around and rode back. "The glass," he said, "the glass you showed Gimli on the fields of Rohan. Do you have it still?"

She nodded and pulled out the little bag she'd packed before they left for Isengard, found the binoculars and handed them to him. "This end," she said, showing him.

He nodded and put the binoculars to his eyes, scanning the wall. A smile broke across his face like sunlight, and he handed them back to her, saying, "The wall is manned, Maggie - my city stands!" Urging their mounts to a gallop again, they rode hard, and in the distance she could hear horns sound. They reached the wall, their shadows long but nightfall not yet come, and as they approached, a gate in the wall opened and out rode a small company of men. Boromir met them some four hundred yards from the wall, Maggie hanging back. She saw him meet the man at the head of the company, saw them embrace, and then Boromir turned and waved her forward. She urged Annin towards them, and when she reached them Boromir said, "Darkness flows out of Mordor, but the Captains of the Outland ride up the south road this day. If we ride hard, we'll catch the last of them."

"That's a good thing?" Maggie asked, "the Captains of the Outlands?"

Boromir laughed, and at the puzzled glance he got from the leader of the company that had met them, he said, "The lady is from far away; she knows nothing of Gondor but what I've conveyed to her on our short journey. Yes," he said, turning to her, "it is a good thing indeed." Then to the man beside him he said, "My brother, is he in the city?"

The man shook his head. "No, my lord. Captain Faramir is in Ithilien, scouting the movements of the enemy."

Boromir nodded, and some of the light left his face. "Come lady," he said then. "We should reach the Great Gate before nightfall. Ride now - we rest tonight in Minas Tirith."


	8. Only For The Good Of Gondor

I don't own any part of LOTR and I'm certainly making no money from this, but I'm more grateful to Mr. Tolkien than I can say for creating such a rich world that so many people want to engage with it themselves. [See previous chapters for other disclaimers.] 

Something that troubles me in the upcoming sections about Gondor is Pippin's role. I dislike not having him join Denethor's service, because I feel it was__ important to his growth as a Hobbit, and to his characterization in the books. However, with Boromir alive, Denethor has no reason to show suspicion of Pippin's role in Boromir's death, and hence Pippin isn't going to feel that spark of pride - and gratitude to Boromir for sacrificing himself - which causes him to give his sword to Denethor. I am going to try my very hardest to find some way to fix this for Pippin in _this_ story, some way to indicate that same growth as a person and a character, but in the meantime, I did want to say that I know it sucks, and I'm sorry. I just couldn't come up with a good reason for Pippin to do it, with Boromir alive.

Also, I could not have written this chapter (or, in all likelihood, the upcoming ones) without the help of two particular reference books: The Complete Guide To Middle Earth, by Robert Foster (recommended by Christopher Tolkien in his preface to Unfinished Tales of Middle Earth), and The Atlas Of Middle Earth, revised edition, by Karen Wynn Fonstad.

**An End To Innocence**

**Chapter Eight: Only For The Good Of Gondor**

The only things Maggie remembered clearly, later, of their journey from the Great Gates of Minas Tirith to the apartment she was to stay in, were the fountain and the tree. They'd ridden a winding path for what seemed like hours, and everywhere people had called Boromir's name. They were escorted by several of his men, but she recalled nothing of what they'd talked about as they rode. She felt glad she'd managed to stay astride her mount, and put most of the credit on Annin. Somehow, as they'd entered the city and she'd heard the gates shut behind them, all the weariness of the long nights riding from Isengard seemed to find her at once, and she felt as tired as she had after Helm's Deep. 

When they reached the last gate they dismounted, and she watched Annin led away to the stables, then followed Boromir through the gate into a courtyard paved in white. What moonlight shone through the clouds gleamed on the paving stones, and a glittering fountain surrounded by green grass caught her eye. In the center of the fountain stood a tree, clearly long dead, its branches drooping towards the water as though grieving, and the droplets that sparkled on it seemed to her like tears. She started towards it, and Boromir walked with her while their escort waited. "'Tis the White Tree of Gondor," he said softly. "Isildur brought a seedling of Nimloth, the White Tree of Númenor which was burned by Sauron in the first war, to Minas Ithil." There was reverence in his voice when he spoke. "When Minas Ithil was also taken by Sauron, Isildur brought a seedling with him again when he fled, and after the defeat of Sauron, he planted it here, in Minas Tirith, though it was called Minas Arnor then. 'Tis withered now," he said, "as you see. It died when the Steward Belecthor the second died, but it stands here still." 

She put her hand on his. "It seems terribly sad," she said.

He was quiet for a moment, as they stood together looking at the fountain, and the withered tree, and finally he slipped his arm around her waist. "Come, lady. I would see you to your lodging, and then I must find my father. I'll join you later," he said, "if you'd welcome me."

She looked at him and couldn't tell if he was kidding, so she smiled, and answered, "Always." 

When he'd gone, she stripped off armor and clothing and made good use of the wash basin, wishing for a bathtub but well aware that if there'd been one, she lacked the energy to really appreciate it. Finally she slipped into bed, relishing the feel of a mattress beneath her and clean sheets on her bare skin, hoping Boromir wouldn't be scandalized to find her naked, but not too worried that he would be. He hadn't lived up - or, rather, down - to any of her expectations of a man who was from what seemed like it should have been a fairly sexist and repressed society, and she was grateful for it. "Maybe it's just ... how soldiers are," she murmured to herself, closing her eyes, "just.... " but before she could finish the thought, she was asleep.

She woke briefly some time later to the weight of Boromir beside her, rolled over and opened sleepy eyes. "Shh," he whispered, stroking her shoulder. "Go back to sleep, my beauty."

She reached up and touched his face in the darkness. "How did it go with your father?" she asked. "What did you talk about?"

He hesitated, then said, "We talked of war, and the good of Gondor, and of my brother. Nothing that bears repeating here in the dark, in the night. Sleep now," and he settled his head on the pillow and pulled her into his arms.

She kissed his fingers. "Tell me tomorrow?"

"Yes," he replied, "I will, if you ask me."

But when the chambermaid woke her late in the morning, he was already gone.

Washed and dressed again, she stepped out of the small apartment and into the day, then stopped, looking around. The morning was scarcely brighter than the night before had been. Dark clouds painted the sky, letting little light through, though she could see a paleness high in the east where the sun should have been. No one was in the courtyard, and she walked to where the fountain was. It still sparkled, even in the dim light. "I wonder if this is what he meant when he said darkness flowed out of Mordor," she murmured. In front of her, past the gate where they had entered, the courtyard narrowed to a point far from the fountain. Uncertain what to do with herself, she walked to the point and stood looking out over the Great Gate some seven hundred feet below. Beyond the gate, she could see the vast fields that Boromir had called the Pelennor, through which they'd ridden the previous night, and though to the south she could make out the wall that surrounded the fields, it was too dark, and the wall too far to see the rest. She stayed there for a long time, her gaze following the horizon. Far away to the northeast she saw that the darkness thickened, deepened, and a red glow cut it as if the gates of Hell had opened and all the blackness come streaming out. "Mordor," she murmured, and felt a chill course over her skin. "Mount Doom, it must be."

"Maggie!" A voice from behind her pulled her out of her thoughts and she turned to find Pippin there.

She grinned, and they met halfway, Maggie dropping to her knees to hug him. "Hey there," she said. "God, you're a sight for sore eyes. Can I just say how great it is to see you?" 

"Indeed you may," he said brightly, "and likewise I'm sure. When did you arrive?"

"Last night sometime," she said. "I don't know where Boromir's gone, but he'll be glad to see you."

"And I him. Come on," he said, taking her hand and leading her to the low wall that surrounded the fountain. They sat, and he went on, "The others have gone with Aragorn and Théoden to Dunharrow to muster Théoden's forces, but Gandalf and I got here yesterday morning. I've been keeping my eyes open for you and Boromir ever since, except for when we saw Denethor and I could hardly keep my eyes open at all." She chuckled, and he grinned. "No, I'm not so bad off as that. He's actually quite an interesting gentleman, the Steward of Gondor," he went on, "and he was pleased to hear that Boromir was on his way."

"What did you talk about?" she asked.

"Lots of things," he replied. "Mostly he asked me questions, and Gandalf had told me before we went in to watch my words, as though he thought Denethor'd be trying to find things out from me, though I've no idea what he'd need to know from a wee Hobbit from the Shire."

Maggie laughed. "You underestimate yourself, Pip," she said. "As was pointed out to me once, you and I travel among legends, and as a Hobbit, for most people you're a legend yourself. I'm not surprised he'd be curious, and I imagine you know more that Denethor would like to know than you think you do."

He looked doubtful. "It seems so unlikely," he said, then paused, and went on. "I told him about our journey from the Shire to Rivendell, and from Rivendell through Moria and Lothlorien, but I couldn't tell him about your arrival at Amon Hen because Gandalf said not to talk about the weapons you carry or the world you come from." Pippin's smile faded and he shook his head, looking at her. "I think Denethor may be surprised to meet you," he said, "and for that I apologize, for I do not think I'd like to be a surprise to the Steward of Gondor."

She squeezed his hand. "Don't worry about it," she said. "I think I'm in good with the son, so it might not be so bad."

Pippin laughed. "Not so bad, or maybe worse," he said, "but I'm glad to hear you and Boromir have grown closer. He needs good friends," he finished thoughtfully, his voice trailing off.

Maggie frowned. "What's up, Pippin?" she asked. "Is something going on?"

"I don't know," he replied, shaking his head. "It's just - Gandalf told me not to mention much about Strider to Denethor," and Pippin looked up at her. "He thinks the Steward might not welcome him, Strider being the king and all, and Denethor being as good as one, but only so long as Strider stays just Strider."

"Ah," said Maggie, nodding.

"And Boromir," Pippin murmured, almost to himself, "Boromir wants to please his father, save his people, and be loyal to his king." His eyes were worried. "He can do the second, I don't doubt," he said, "especially with Strider on his side, but the other two.... Well, I just hope he doesn't have to make a choice."

There was a long pause, and then Maggie said, "Do you know if Gandalf has seen Boromir?"

Pippin shook his head. "I don't think so." After a moment Pippin looked up. "Oh, I see what you mean," he said worriedly.

She nodded. "Boromir went to see his dad last night, after we arrived."

"Yes," said Pippin, nodding, "he would, of course."

"I'm guessing Denethor already knows about me, and the guns, and Aragorn." 

Silence again, and then Pippin sighed. "He may have learned about Aragorn, at least, from me already - he's canny, and Gandalf didn't reproach me, but he did seem to say that Denethor may've found out from me who was coming." He stood up then, brushing imaginary lint off his trousers. "Well, what's done is done," he said. "And I don't think even Gandalf could convince Boromir to lie to the Steward. Come on - let's go see if we can find the Man."

She stood with him, looking around. "You know what, Pip - it suddenly occurs to me that my friends were supposed to come at nightfall last night."

He took her hand again. "Don't you worry - I'm sure they'll be here. They've probably just gotten the time difference wrong."

She smiled and squeezed his hand. "Yeah, you're probably right," and they started towards the gate. "It is pretty weird," she said, "this back-and-forthing from one world to another."

"Didn't Gandalf say maybe even one _time_ to another?"

"Mmm," and she nodded. "Yeah, and I can't figure that one out."

"Oh?"

"Well," she said as they passed through the gate with its impressively black-robed, mithril-helmed guards, "in my world, we think we know how Men came to be, and pretty much what happened between the appearance of the first life on the planet to the way things are there now. Unless we got a whole lot wrong, this _can't_ be my world, regardless of the when."

Pippin frowned. "How can you know all that?"

"Oh," she said, "on the more recent stuff, there are written records, and then for all of it there's artifacts, and fossils, which are like, bones of things that died, or impressions of things left in mud when it covered something and turned to stone. We have people called archeologists and anthropologists who read things like fossils, and - and histories of people." Maggie spent the next little while trying to explain to Pippin about evolution and natural selection, archeology, anthropology, geology, paleontology, zoology, biology, and how they all worked together as they walked the winding street through Minas Tirith. While she did, she was also gazing around at the architecture, the white stone buildings, the way they gleamed dully, beautiful even on this dawnless day. Turning as she walked, she looked up and saw, high above, the White Tower, which she'd passed in the courtyard of the fountain but hadn't really seen until just now. "Oh wow," she whispered, and stopped. Pippin glanced at her, then at where she gazed.

"The White Tower of Ecthelion," he said. "It's where the throne room is, with the empty throne and the Steward's chair. There are meeting rooms there as well," he went on, "for council, and - and whatever it is that powerful men do."

She shook her head in amazement. "It's so beautiful," she said, and felt sudden tears come to her eyes. She didn't wipe them away. "Pippin," she said, her voice clear in spite of the emotions she felt rising, "why - why would someone want to destroy all this?" She looked down at him, and he seemed much more of a man than a child to her at last, standing there, gazing up at the Tower, and she felt like a child herself, confused and frightened by the workings of the world.

He shook his head. "I don't know, my friend," he said. "I don't know if anyone knows."

She knelt beside him, looking up once more at the white spire rising into the bruised and blackened sky. "There's so much beauty in the world," she murmured, "and so much sadness."

"'Tis true of every world, is it not, lady?" he said, looking at her. He reached out and touched the tears that coursed down her cheeks. "Your world has much beauty in it, doesn't it? and much sadness."

She looked at the ground, remembering. Remembered the way moonlight lit the office towers, and the soft paws of the cat that lived outside her apartment, and spoke to her each morning when she left. The fearless sparrows that scrambled for crumbs on the asphalt and sang in clear, high voices from their perches in the eaves and on the windowsills. So many things. Little things. The child she heard crying in the night, and the woman who comforted him; the crack of gunfire, and the sound of sirens; the music of voices below her window on summer nights when people gathered to talk, and drink, and laugh. "Yes," she said finally. "it does. Sometimes they're so mixed you can't tell where one stops and the other begins."

He put his hand on her back, and said, "You fight for two worlds, Maggie. Whether or not they were both yours to start with, they're both yours now, because you fight to save them."

"I just don't understand," she said, "why someone would want to hurt them so." He didn't answer, but stroked her back, and finally she looked at him again. "If I understood," she said, "maybe... maybe it wouldn't seem so hard."

He smiled gently. "Oh," he said, "I don't know. It might seem easier, but," he went on thoughtfully, "it might seem harder, depending on the why. Maybe what's important to people like you and me is just seeing to it that the things we love are safe." He slipped his fingers under her arm. "Come, lady," he said. "Let's go find your soldier."

They found him on the fourth circle, coming towards them, intent on his conversation with a man Maggie didn't recognize. "Boromir!" shouted Pippin then, and ran forward as Boromir looked towards the sound of his name.

A grin lit his face when he saw Pippin. "Master Peregrin!" he called, and strode forward, knelt as the Hobbit reached him and clasped him in an embrace. "You are a welcome sight indeed!" he said.

"And look who I brought to you," said Pippin, looking towards Maggie. "Our savior and, if I'm not mistaken," and he glanced back at Boromir and winked, "somewhat more than that...?"

Boromir smiled again and Maggie thought she detected a slight blush. "Ah, Pip," he said, "you're not so innocent as you make out, are you? Come," he said then, standing, and he turned to the other man and said, "These are two of my companions, of whom I told you - the lady Maggie Dunshay, and Master Peregrin Took, of the Shire." Turning back to them, he said, "This is Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, my kinsman and my friend."

"My lord," said Pippin, and the Prince smiled at him.

"So this is a Hobbit," he said. "You travel far to come to a war," he said, kneeling down to look Pippin in the eye. "Your people must be stolid, from the bones of the earth, like the Dwarves."

"More like from the stomach of the earth," said Pippin, smiling, and Boromir laughed.

"From the heart of the earth, friend," he said, "believe it."

Imrahil rose then and turned to Maggie. "The outworlder," he said, then took her hand and kissed it. "My lady, I owe you a debt of gratitude. My kinsman told me of your timely arrival, and I thank you for it, and for your courage." He grinned at Boromir and clapped a hand on his back. "I'd not lose this one for all the mithril in the Dwarrowdelf."

Boromir laughed, throwing his arm around his friend's shoulder. "Come on," he said, "we should - " and he blinked as Imrahil started violently, his hand going to his sword. "Ah," said Boromir then, placing his hand over Imrahil's. "My lady, I think your friends have arrived at last."

Shortly, the six of them - Boromir, Imrahil, Pippin, and Maggie, plus Mira and Janet who had so startled Imrahil when they appeared out of the air - were ensconced at a table in one of the ale-houses of the city, a lunch of cheese, bread, and cold meat before them, water, and a hot brew Maggie didn't recognize but which tasted slightly of honey and wine. Eventually, Mira turned to Maggie and said, "So, we found out some things you should know. It's why we're a little late."

Maggie nodded. "I wondered about that. What's up?"

"It's Keith, first of all," she began. "He's dead." The others stopped their conversations then, and listened.

Maggie blinked. "Huh? How?"

"Sorrow. He found him at last."

"Ah," Maggie said, and nodded again. "Well, that sucks."

"Yeah. But," said Mira, "he did tell us some interesting things before that. Like, it's not by accident you're here after all." Boromir and Imrahil tensed at her words, and Maggie didn't miss the shadow that crossed Boromir's face. "Oh," Mira went on quickly when she caught the sudden tension, "it _ was_ by accident that _you're_ here, but it was a case of mistaken identity. Keith was supposed to send Constance Jones."

Maggie's eyes widened. "No way."

"It's true," said Janet. "He sent Keith to meet her at the same bar where your friends were meeting you, the same night. Keith just thought you were her."

"Shit," Maggie murmured, looking down. "Wow."

"Who is Constance Jones?" asked Boromir.

"An assassin," said Mira. "All Keith knew was that she had short dark hair, wore black, and carried guns. She'd been hired by Sorrow to come here and kill all of you, and bring the ring to Saruman."

Silence then, and Boromir passed his hand over his face. "By the gods," he whispered. "You," he said, looking at Maggie, who had paled, "you are here because a half-wit wizard," his eyes growing dark, "was too drunk to make certain of who you were?" He shook his head. 

"Worse still," said Mira. "The half-wit wizard was also too drunk to remember to send the note with her that Sorrow - well, Saruman, it looks like - told him to send." She glanced at Janet, who reached into her pocket and pulled out an envelope, which she handed to Maggie.

Maggie opened it, pulling out a note and a hand-drawn map, and read aloud: "'Constance,' it says, 'as agreed, you will kill all members of the Fellowship whom you find, and take the Ring from the one who bears it.'" Maggie smiled a wry smile and glanced at Boromir. "Probably just as well I didn't have it - y'all would never have let me come along if I'd been carrying this little missive." She shook her head and turned her eyes back to the paper, continuing. "'You will bring it to me at Isengard, and with it, you will give me this note, which will explain to me who you are and that I sent you.'" She pulled out a second envelope, to which the remains of a wax seal still clung. "Guess she wasn't supposed to see this part," Maggie said softly. It contained another note. "'Saruman,'" Maggie read aloud again, "'a gift to you from your future, with which you may destroy the Enemy. Return this woman to her time with the gift I send. She has access to great powers of destruction there, which she may bring to you, and with which you may easily enforce obedience to your will amongst the peoples of Middle Earth, while yet not using the power of this great gift, which may turn your own works against you. She is no wizard herself, and will be easily dispatched once you have no further need of her.'" Maggie looked at Mira and Janet. "Do we know what he meant by that? the part about 'great powers of destruction'?" she asked.

Mira frowned. "Well, we asked around, and it turns out that she's had some dealings with arms traders, and some who supply terrorists." She paused. "We think," she said, hesitantly, "that Saruman was talking about getting dirty bombs, or possibly biological agents. Or both. Or worse."

Cold, Maggie reached out and gripped Mira's hand. "Did she get here?" she asked, her voice tight.

Mira shook her head, and Janet said, "When we found Keith he was running from Sorrow, that much is true. But not quite for the reasons he'd told us."

"Apparently Sorrow had found out that Keith had sent the wrong person," Mira said. "That's why he was looking for him - to punish him. Keith stole the talisman and tried to disappear, but he's not a very - well," she said, "wasn't a very competent wizard, and we found him first."

"How did Sorrow find out Keith had screwed up?"

"Constance went to him, to get paid," Mira said. "She figured, it wasn't her fault the jackass didn't send the right woman, and she wanted either for Saruman to get her to Middle Earth to do the job, or pay her fee."

"She's dead, too," said Janet, and Maggie turned to her, mouth agape.

"You're - he - he killed Constance Jones?"

Mira snapped her fingers. "Just like that."

"Why, for god's sake?"

Janet shrugged. "Fit of pique, as far as I can tell."

Maggie shook her head, closing her eyes. "Wow. So, is he - what, hiring someone else to send? to try again?"

"He can't," said Janet. "I mean, first, it's not that easy to find people like Constance. But on top of that, as long as I have the talisman, he doesn't have a way to get anyone here. He needs either this or the Ring." She paused. "Well, at least, so far. There's no telling whether he might find another way."

"Sonuvabitch," said Maggie softly.

"It gets better," said Mira, and Maggie groaned. "Wanna know what Sorrow did when he found out we were bringing weapons to Middle Earth?"

Maggie's eyes grew wide, and her heart turned to ice. "He _knows_? How does he know?!" She took Mira's arm. "God, Mira, is everyone okay? What the _fuck_ is going on?!"

"Shh, baby," said Mira, "everyone's fine. Everyone's fine. It's - well, it was a weird night." She shook her head. "It's complicated - magicky crap that I don't understand, but Sorrow was... he was there, and not. He... he turned up in Greg's apartment while we were planning how best to get the weapons here. It was like - like a hologram, but not a hologram."

Janet grimaced. "I think he may have been in our heads," she said. "All of us, at once. That's how he killed Keith, and that's how I found out what was really going on - the whole Constance thing and everything. Sorrow wasn't well-shielded, I think because he was talking to us all at once, _and_ killing Keith, which is how he found us - through Keith, after he broke through that protection spell."

"But everyone's okay?"

Mira nodded. "Janet kicked his ass back to the Black City," she said, grinning.

"The talisman's what did it," said Janet. "I just told it what to do."

"Anyway," Mira said, "guess what he did when he found out about the guns."

"I can't imagine," said Maggie, trying to stop shaking.

"He laughed." Maggie looked at her, and Mira nodded. "He laughed. He said, and I'm quoting, 'You do my work for me, and though this corruption will be slow, it will be equally corrupt.' And he thanked us."

"Oh good lord," Maggie murmured, and turned to Boromir, startled to see Imrahil and Pippin still there. She'd forgotten about them. "I think this is bad news," she said. "I think if Saruman thinks sending y'all guns is a good idea, we may want to reconsider its wisdom as a plan."

Pippin spoke up then. "Gandalf has known Saruman for so long," he said. "Wouldn't Gandalf - I mean, mightn't we want to ask his opinion? Sooner, I mean, rather than later?"

"Where are the others?" asked Maggie, turning to Mira. "Are they safe?"

Mira nodded. "For now," she said, "but I'd rather they were here. I don't know how long before Sorrow might be able to get to them."

"Can you get them here?" Maggie asked Janet.

"Yes," she replied, and looked at her. "With the guns, or without?"

"Without," she said, "for now." She missed the look Boromir gave her, but he didn't speak. "Good then," said Maggie, standing up. "Let's get them." She glanced at Pippin. "We'll go look for Gandalf after my people are safely here with us."

"My lady," said Imrahil. "You bring your people into a city on the verge of being besieged. I would not call that safe."

She inclined her head, and replied, "Neither would I, but at least here, Saruman isn't looking for them."

Boromir nodded. "They may indeed be safer here," he said. "We can find lodging for them in the Citadel, and if the worst happens and Minas Tirith falls, the lady Janet can take them home again."

Imrahil placed his hand on Boromir's arm. "Minas Tirith will not fall," he said softly, but there was steel beneath the gentleness, and Boromir clasped his hand over his friend's, and gripped it.

Some hours later, Jack, Greg, Paul, and Michael were setting up quarters in the apartments next to Maggie's, which Maggie was going to share with Mira and Janet, while Maggie stood by the fountain, gazing at the withered tree. Pippin had gone to look for Gandalf, Boromir and Imrahil were off on some business of their own, and Maggie realized with a start that she didn't know where they'd gone, or what the business was, nor had she asked him again about his conversation with his father. "Dammit," she muttered to herself, "I need to talk to him." She started towards the apartments to tell Mira she was going to go look for him, when suddenly the air was torn by a great, shuddering cry, hawk-like but foul, as if dragged screaming from the throat of an evil thing. Stricken with a paralyzing fear, she fell to her knees beside the fountain, her skin icy, her hands over her ears, and finally managed to pull her eyes skyward. In the east, over the Fields of the Pelennor, she saw a great winged beast circle once over the Fields and dive below the line of her sight. Terrified, she staggered to her feet and ran stumbling to her quarters, where Mira and Janet were crouching by the doorway.

"What in the name of fuck is that?" asked Mira in a choked whisper.

Maggie shook her head, scrambling to where she'd stowed her guns before bed the previous night. "I don't know," she said. "Dragon? I don't know, but - fuck, fuck it all," her voice shaking with fear, "I'm going to go see, dammit." She unholstered one of the weapons, snatched the binoculars from where they lay with her armor, and made for the embrasure where she'd met Pippin that morning. Her legs felt like lead, every step a struggle, as though she waded through a dream, but in her mind she saw Boromir, out there, and Pippin, she didn't know where. She reached the embrasure and looked out, icy terror still gripping her. Far over the fields, five huge, black, winged creatures, each with a shadowy figure astride it, wheeled and dived, always towards the same point, and faintly the sound of a trumpet reached her ears. Maggie put the binoculars to her eyes and flipped on the night vision, scanning the ground at the point that drew the creatures. A line of men she saw then, five riders, making for the Gate. As she watched, one of the black riders urged his mount down, shrieking, and the horses panicked, four of them throwing their riders. "Dammit," she muttered, dropping the binoculars and raising the pistol to sight on the creature, knowing it was far too far away. Then, from the north, she saw a bright light, a pinpoint of starlight that grew as it approached the remaining rider, who'd ridden back to his men, until the shadows fell away and the field was lit in silvery white light. Below, she heard voices crying out Gandalf's name. She raised the binoculars to her eyes again, and indeed, it was Gandalf, on a sterling white horse. As she watched, one of the winged creatures dove down towards the interloper, but Gandalf raised his hand and a spike of brightness stabbed upwards, and the creature wheeled away from it. Moments later, all of them had spiraled up and flown away to the east, vanishing into the lowering clouds. Below, on the fields, the horseman and the White Rider waited for the four who'd been thrown, and from the gate streamed a small company of men. Shortly, all had ridden back to the city and passed inside. She watched their progress, and listened to the cacophony of shouts from which she could make out only one clear cry: Faramir returns. 

The fear that had gripped her when the black riders had circled overhead was gone, and she strode back to the apartments. "Boromir's brother," she said as she entered. "He's back, and if he's not too hurt they'll probably be up here shortly to see Denethor." As she spoke, she buckled on the gunbelt, and Mira and Janet watched her uneasily.

"So, if we're all on the same side," said Mira, "why are you taking the Glocks?"

Maggie paused then, and turned to her. "We're all on the same side," she said, "when there are just two sides, us and them. But on our side there are at least two more sides, and I don't know who's on which one."

"What do you mean?" asked Janet.

Shaking her head, Maggie replied, "I - it's," wondering whether she should tell them at all. Finally, she sat down on the edge of the bed. "Denethor," she said, "is the Steward of Gondor, the country we're in. Boromir is worried about him, says he's not been acting right lately. But in any event, the Stewards have run the country for a long time, waiting for the true king to return." She paused. "And Aragorn - who, if you recall, is on his way here with an _army_, albeit to help against Sauron - is the true king."

Mira drew a breath. "Ah," she said. "Well. I mean, I knew he was _something_, but I don't remember you mentioning anything about him being a king."

"Uh-huh," Maggie said, nodding. "He's sort of been keeping the whole thing to himself for a pretty long time," she said.

Janet frowned. "What for?" she asked. "I mean, isn't that sort of, well," and she hesitated, "not very kingly, during a war?"

Maggie shrugged. "I get the impression there were extenuating circumstances," she said, "but I'm not entirely clear on it. Anyway," she went on, "no one's really sure what Denethor's going to do about Aragorn, and I haven't had a chance to talk with Boromir since he talked to Denethor."

"So what do you think is going to happen?" asked Janet.

Maggie shrugged. "I have no idea," she answered. "I don't even know if Denethor knows about Aragorn. Maybe Boromir didn't say anything. Maybe he didn't say anything about the guns either." She stood up. "But I just," and she hesitated, not sure quite what to say, "I just don't trust the situation," she finished at last. "Now, I'm going to go see if I can find Boromir - I don't even know if he knows Faramir is back. And I want you two," she added as she started for the door, "and the guys, to stay here."

Mira stood, shaking her head. "No way, sweetums," she said. "If you don't trust the situation, I sure as hell don't, and I really don't want you out there alone."

"Not up to you," she answered, and Mira laughed.

"Been hanging out with kings and captains much?" she asked. "It _is_ up to me where I go."

A flash of anger crossed Maggie's face, but she suppressed it. "Mira," she said gently, "I just want y'all in one place, is all. They keep telling me we're going to be besieged. I just want to - " but she hesitated as the sounds of boots on stone reached them. They turned to the open doorway, and Maggie stepped forward as a soldier came towards them.

He stopped a short distance from the door and said, "Lord Denethor requests the presence of Maggie Dunshay in his chambers for council." He paused. "I've come to escort her."

Maggie touched Mira's shoulder. "Please stay here," she said, and after a moment Mira nodded. Maggie turned to the soldier. "I'm Maggie," she said, stepped forward. The soldier made a little bow, and she followed him out into the night.

Presently they came to the private chambers of the Steward, but the guard kept Maggie waiting outside the closed door for over an hour, and she became increasingly irritable. When finally word came that Denethor wanted to see her, her irritation fled, replaced by tension at the sight that greeted her. Boromir sat in a carved chair to the right of a cold-eyed man Maggie knew must be his father. To Denethor's left sat a younger man who looked so like Boromir that Maggie's heart did a little skip. 'Two of them,' she thought. 'Wow.' A little ways away, on the other side of a glowing brazier, sat Gandalf, Pippin at his side. Maggie caught Boromir's eye, and though he didn't smile, his hard expression softened slightly, and he gave a barely detectable nod to her. She came fully into the room then, stopping across from Denethor. He watched her come, his expression thoughtful, his grey eyes steely, his mouth a grim line. Maggie's stomach tightened, and she felt suddenly as afraid as she had her first night in Middle Earth, when Aragorn had come and she'd thought he would question her, and didn't know what else he might do. She stood there for a moment, and finally said, "I'm Maggie Dunshay."

"The one who saved my eldest," said Denethor, his voice silky and cool.

She shrugged. "I don't know," she said. "He's quite the - " and stopped herself before she said 'bad-ass', finishing, "soldier. It's hard to say what would have happened."

"Nay, it isn't," said Denethor. "He told me how sore pressed he was, and the horn of Gondor bringing no aid -" Boromir scowled, turning to his father, who held up his hand. "Bringing no quick aid," he amended, "does that suit you better?" Maggie could see that it didn't, but he acquiesced, and was silent. "No, my dear," Denethor continued, fixing his gaze on her, "he'd have died, and I'd have lost the best of my line." Feeling more nervous by the moment, Maggie quickly understood just how deep the tension among the three men ran. 'What kind of father says that,' she thought to herself. 'Even a ki - well, a not-a-king, shouldn't talk like that with both his kids right there.' But she didn't speak, just stood there, hands clasped behind her back, waiting. "Show me these weapons you carry," he said, motioning her forward.

Hesitant, she stepped towards him, drawing Desire. She didn't hold it out to him, however, and he eyed her warily. She looked to Boromir, who understood her hesitation, and he held out his hand to her. She frowned, and said, "It's loaded," then gave him the pistol for him to show his father. In a soft voice he explained to Denethor about the trigger guard, and the action of the weapon, and Maggie tensed hard as Denethor took the pistol from Boromir to examine it more closely. It was all she could do not to step forward and take it from his hands.

"So small," he murmured, then handed it back to Boromir and looked at Maggie. "Are all of them this small?"

She shook her head. "Some are a lot bigger," she said. "But that doesn't always mean they're more deadly."

"And you can bring us these, and men to train my soldiers in their use?"

She hesitated, and looked around. "Well," she began, "it's become a little more complicated."

Denethor sat forward. "Can you," he said, "or can you not? 'Tis a simple question."

She frowned, turned to Boromir, then back to Denethor. "Look," she said, "it's not that easy. Yes, I can bring them to you, but -"

"Then do so," said Denethor.

"No sir," Maggie replied, shaking her head. Denethor's cold gaze turned icy, and out of the corner of her eye she could see Gandalf sit forward a bit. "Not yet, not until I've told you the rest."

There was a long moment, and at last Denethor said softly, "Do you understand to whom you speak?"

She smiled, the smile not reaching her eyes, and she felt the steel stubborn streak that had so infuriated so many people rising like a spike from her gut to her mouth. "I speak," she said, crossing her arms, "to the lord of a country in which I'm either a guest or a tourist or a refugee but not a citizen, in a world that's not mine, in a political structure I don't understand and don't consider myself subject to. And," she said, cocking her head to one side, "I speak to the father of the man whose life I saved." She took a breath and resisted the urge to back down from Denethor's increasingly angry expression. "The weapons are mine," she said, "and my people's. My friends risked a lot to get them, but there's new information, and we'll bring them only if it's agreed, after I've shared that information, that it's not a lunatic and fuckwitted idea."

There was silence, and then Boromir began to laugh. Faramir and Denethor looked at him, and he stood up and came to where she was, still chuckling, and slipped his arm around her shoulders. "My lord," he said, turning to Denethor, "you'll learn that the lady has as strong a will as any son of Gondor." He hugged her briefly to him, and went on, "When I told her to go to the caverns to escape the fighting at Helm's Deep, she disobeyed entirely and fought alongside the men of Rohan. Before that, she disobeyed a fellow soldier who'd told her to fly to the Gate, and she stood with the rear guard against the advancing armies of Saruman." He looked at her, his eyes shining, and she felt some of her nervousness slip away. Boromir turned back to his father, and went on, "And when Isildur's heir ordered her to the caverns before the ride of the Eorlingas at dawn," and he laughed again, genuine, and she could hear Gandalf chuckling as well, "she swore at him! She _swore_ at Isildur's heir, and the son of Thranduil standing there with his mouth agape! I heard it from the Prince himself!" 

"Prince?" murmured Maggie, glancing up at him.

Still laughing, Boromir nodded. "Oh yes, lady - our young Legolas is older than any in this room save Gandalf, and the adored son of Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm." He motioned to one of the guards near the door of the chamber. "Come," he said, "get the lady a chair, we'll parley like civilized people." Turning to his father, he finished, "Unless you'd like to put my savior in chains and throw her in the dungeon? Though I dare say you'll never get your weapons then."

After a long moment, a small smile cracked the stone of Denethor's expression, and he inclined his head. "As you say, Boromir."

Boromir turned to her again, giving her a wry grin. "You," he said, very softly, "have almost made my father very angry."

"Almost?" she whispered, and he shook his head.

"Angry indeed," he said, still smiling, "and I'll hear no end of it. I'll have to reprimand you later," he said, "if we can find a private moment."

She chuckled and grinned at him. "I'll look forward to it," she said.

The guard arrived then with a chair, and she sat down, suddenly grateful and feeling very unsteady. She wondered whether Denethor would have put her in the dungeon, and if so, what Mira and the others would have done about it. And Legolas, who she'd thought was seventeen, was older than any of them _and_ a prince? She let out a breath and took a sip of the wine Boromir offered her.

And then she told them what Mira and Janet had relayed, told them about Sorrow, and Saruman. Told them about the weapons, and about Constance Jones, and dirty bombs and modern warfare and missiles and nuclear warheads and biological weapons. They offered her more wine, but she asked for water instead, and then Denethor questioned her for what seemed like hours. By the time he finished, she felt like she'd used up every word she would ever speak, and didn't have any left.

Then Gandalf said, "So, Maggie. What do you recommend we do?" She turned to him, and he smiled a very small smile, his blue eyes glittering in the firelight. "Do you recommend we bring these weapons, or forgo them, and rely on the strength we have?"

She looked down, then at Boromir, then at her hands. "I recommend we forgo them, sir," she said, and raised her eyes to Gandalf's again. "I wouldn't have, but..." and she hesitated. "If it pleases Saruman so much, is there any chance it's good?"

"Very little," said Gandalf.

Denethor leaned back in his chair, and raised his finger to his lips. "However," he said, looking at Maggie, "you are no soldier. Can you know what would be best for an army? for a world at war?"

She hesitated, then said, "I don't know, but Sorrow - Saruman - he's seen these weapons in my own time. He's seen what they do, and he's glad that we're bringing them here, to a place he wants to destroy." She stopped again, watching the fire, not looking at any of them. I think," she continued finally, "that something which makes our enemy laugh, and thank us, is something we probably shouldn't do."

Denethor shook his head. "But this is not your world, and perhaps they will not bring to us the ruin Saruman supposes."

She took a breath, but before she could answer him, Faramir spoke, and Maggie was surprised to hear how much like Boromir's his voice was, only more velvet and less steel. "My lord," he said, "the lady has a good argument. Saruman has seen what these weapons do to people and - "

Denethor turned on him with a harsh sound. "You speak out of turn, Faramir," he said, scowling. "If you fear the strength of these weapons, that is no good argument against them, for you fear the strength of your own sword."

Faramir blanched then, and started to rise, but a quick look from Boromir restrained him. "My lord," said Boromir, "you are too harsh. Faramir has courage, and honor, and his men love him for good reason. Indeed, you heard this very night his report from Ithilien, from whence he has brought you much-needed news of the enemy at great peril to himself. Do not rebuke him so unfairly for doing his duty of honest opinion to you in council."

Denethor snarled, turning on Boromir now. "Do both my sons think they surpass their father in wisdom and experience, and conspire to work against me?"

"Nay, father," said Faramir. "We work only for the good of Gondor."

"Then what is to the good of Gondor?" said Denethor angrily. "What is to the good of Gondor, my rebellious offspring?" looking from one to the other. "Tell me what you would have us do, Boromir."

He hesitated, meeting Faramir's gaze, then Gandalf's, then Denethor's. "I would have us rely on our own strength, my lord, not on the strength of unknown weapons that bring joy to our enemy rather than despair."

"And is that the only reason?" asked Denethor, his voice silky again, "because a mad wizard from another world would like us to believe we should not use them?" Boromir looked away, his expression angry, and torn. "Or have you succumbed," Denethor continued, "to your affection for your brother?"

Boromir turned to look at Denethor, and in a steely tone said, "What are you implying, lord? that I speak an opinion not my own, out of love for Faramir?" Denethor didn't answer, but met his son's gaze steadily. "My lord," Boromir's voice low but strong, "you know me better." His eyes didn't leave Denethor's, and after a long moment the Steward inclined his head, breaking their gaze without seeming to drop his own.

"Very well," said Denethor. "We will not ask you to bring these weapons here, now. Not yet." He caught Maggie's gaze and she felt the pull of his will, and he said, "But do not think we may never ask you for them, and be prepared then," his tone just this side of menacing, "to respond as a citizen of Gondor, if you expect that gentle treatment."

It was late, and Maggie sat with Faramir and Boromir at a small table in Boromir's rooms, wine glasses in front of them, and a bottle open on the table. "I can't get over how much alike you two look," she said, glancing from one to the other. Both of them smiled.

"Ah, but Boromir is the handsomer by far," said Faramir, glancing at his brother. "Boromir the Fair," and he smiled.

"And Faramir the Wise," Boromir replied. "Aye, don't dispute it," he said when Faramir started to speak, "you know 'tis true."

Faramir chuckled and turned his gaze to Maggie. "Believe everything he says, unless it be about me," he said, then winced and laughed when Boromir punched him none too lightly on the shoulder. 

"So why didn't you show Denethor the pistol I gave you?" asked Maggie, sipping her wine. "Why wait and let him put me on the spot like that?"

Boromir shrugged. "In frankness, lady, I'd forgotten about it. It is not natural to me, like my own sword and shield, and I - " he hesitated, then chuckled. "I simply forgot."

Maggie laughed. "Great," she said, "I give you this nasty little trinket that could blow a hole in anyone who picks it up, and you _forget_ about it."

"Oh," he said, "it's unloaded, I assure you."

"Well that's good," said Maggie, smiling. "I wonder if Aragorn's forgotten about his."

"Ah," and Boromir looked away. "I fear, lady, that he lost it at Helm's Deep."

Startled, she fixed him with an unpleasant gaze. "Lost it?"

Boromir looked sheepish. "T'was a difficult battle," he said. "He thinks he dropped it when he leapt into the breach of the wall."

Maggie opened her mouth, then shut it again, then said, "You mean that place where they blew a hole in the wall? he went in there? on purpose?"

Boromir nodded. "It was necessary."

She chuckled. "Well, he's forgiven then."

"And I?" he said with a grin. 

She smiled. "You can make it up to me."

Pouring the remainder of the bottle into his own glass, Faramir opened another and filled Boromir's and Maggie's from that. "Helm's Deep was hard won," he said as he poured. "And I understand Gandalf is responsible for the clearing of Théoden's mind."

"Aye," said Boromir. "It was as if thirty years fell away from him."

Faramir sighed, and said, "I worry for our own lord, Boromir. He has always held me in small regard, but the way he spoke to you in council," and the younger man shook his head.

"Aye, I do not like to admit it," said Boromir, "but..." and he hesitated. Faramir and Maggie looked at him. "My brother," said Boromir finally, returning Faramir's gaze, "did you know that the Steward uses the palantír?"

His eyes widening, Faramir paled. "No. Boromir, no!"

The elder son nodded. "He told me of it last night, after our arrival in the City. I fear it twists his mind."

Faramir ran one hand over his face, then lay it on Boromir's shoulder. "For how long?" he asked, his voice thin and disbelieving.

"I do not know. Long, I think."

"But Sauron," hardly speaking above a whisper. "Gandalf tells me Saruman's mind was defeated by Sauron, by the palantír. Could - could our father...?"

Boromir's hands clenched into fists. "Ah, Faramir," he said, his voice raw. "I do not know how to move! The Steward begs me to take the throne," he said, "and not as Steward, but as King!" Faramir paled, but didn't speak, and Boromir pressed his fists to his eyes. "He says it is for the good of Gondor, but I do not believe it, and I would not do it," he said, "I will not, but what will Denethor do when Aragorn comes to the City?" He set his hands gently on the table again, and Maggie could feel the tension in him, knew he was gentle because he feared if he weren't, he would lose all gentleness to rage. She'd felt the same way back home, more times than she cared to count. "Do I send riders, to warn him?" Boromir continued. "I don't even know where he is, and we need all our people here and more." His grey eyes were as dark as she'd ever seen them, and his gaze was fierce. "Or do I await his arrival, and risk Denethor doing some fool thing like clapping him in irons? And what then, if he does?" he said angrily. "Do I rise up in revolt against my own father? lead the soldiers of Gondor in _another_ civil war, when all are needed to fight the Enemy?"

"That must be what you didn't want to tell me last night," said Maggie softly.

"Aye, lady" Boromir answered, nodding. "I did not want to believe it myself, and to repeat it to you..." his voice trailed off and he closed his eyes. "Our father is a good man," he murmured, and Faramir placed a hand on Boromir's shoulder.

"He is," said Faramir. "But even a good man can be overthrown by the malice of Sauron."

Boromir clasped his brother's hand in his own and faced him. "I'm glad you're here, Faramir," he said. "I need you with me, now more than ever."

"I am by your side always, my brother," Faramir answered, and brought Boromir's hand to his lips, then leaned forward and pulled the man into a hard embrace.


	9. Fool's Errand

I don't own any part of LOTR and I'm certainly making no money from this, but I'm more grateful to Mr. Tolkien than I can say for creating such a rich world that so many people want to engage with it themselves. [See previous chapters for other disclaimers.] 

Still relying on The Complete Guide To Middle Earth, by Robert Foster (recommended by Christopher Tolkien in his preface to Unfinished Tales of Middle Earth), and The Atlas Of Middle Earth, revised edition, by Karen Wynn Fonstad.

**An End To Innocence**

**Chapter Nine: Fool's Errand**

She woke to the sound of Boromir lacing on his armor, and rolled over to make out his shadowy form in the darkness of his bedchamber. "Hey," she said softly. "What are you doing?"

"I must go," he answered. "The Steward has ordered me to take men to the crossing at the river Erui. He says our spies have told him there are ships coming up the river from the Anduin, and he would know more."

She sat up, pulling the sheets around her. "Wait. What? What kind of ships? Enemy?"

He pulled the last lace tight and said, "He does not know." Maggie heard the mistrust in his voice.

"What aren't you telling me?" she asked.

"I tell you all I know myself," he said, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. He stroked her shoulder, then leaned in and kissed her softly. "It will be a short journey. By nightfall we will have returned. We go not to engage an enemy, but simply to see who comes, or if any come at all."

She slipped her hand around the back of his neck and drew him to her, kissing his mouth, then his cheek, and his mouth again. "Can I go too?" she whispered, and he chuckled.

"No, lady, you may not," he answered, smiling. "We leave within the quarter hour, myself and four Rangers - Rangers of Ithilien," he explained, "not of the North, as Aragorn is. They are of my brother's company."

"Why doesn't Faramir take them, if they're his men?"

Boromir sighed. "Because our lord comands that I do," he said.

She frowned. "And why didn't the spies - I mean, why couldn't they tell Denethor what he needed to know?"

"I know not," he replied, his eyes down, his brow furrowed. "But the Steward is in an ill mood, and will not hear dissent. I cannot persuade him," and he looked at her, a faint smile curving his mouth, "and I cannot disobey, so I go." He kissed her shoulder, and then her lips, and said, "Sleep now. I fear Faramir and I kept you wakeful late into the night."

She smiled. "Oh," she said, "it was fun. It's been a long time since I've been drinking with the guys, and y'all are a hoot together."

He laughed softly and said, "One day you must teach me the finer points of your language. It seems so like ours, and then so very different." He stood then, and she watched him to the door. "Faramir," he said as he opened it, and he turned to her. "See him today, Maggie. I - " and he shook his head. "A shadow is on my heart, and it bears his name. See him today."

She nodded. "I will."

After Boromir left, Maggie found it hard to sleep. She lay in bed for a long time, gazing out the window, waiting for a dawn she knew wouldn't come. Oh, the sun would rise, of course, as it always did, but Minas Tirith was so covered in the darkness of Mordor that what light reached the city was hazy and dim, as if late stormclouds pressed close to the earth. Finally she rose and lit a candle, washed, then pulled on her leggings and started to don her blouse again. As she slipped it over her arms, though, she spotted the shirt Boromir had worn the day before - soft white, with pale green embroidery at the wrists and collar. She hesitated, looking at it. "No one will see it," she murmured finally, "under the cloak and tunic. Who'll know?" She tossed her blouse onto the bed and picked up the shirt, held it to her face. The scent of him still clung to it, musky and sweet, and she slipped it on. It was too big for her, but she and Boromir were almost of a height, so once she'd added the tunic and belted it, the only sign was that the sleeves were a bit too long. She pulled on her boots, slung the cloak over her shoulders, and walked out into the cool air of the courtyard, past the fountain to the embrasure that looked out over the Pelennor. Paleness lit the east, the sun rising towards late morning, red flames in the northeast where Mount Doom still tore the sky. As her gaze dropped back towards the fields from the horizon, movement caught her eye, and then she heard the sounds of hoofbeats far off. Scanning the field below, she spotted the source - a company of men riding to the northeast across the Pelennor. She felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up, and murmured, "Faramir." Shaking her head, she tried to dispel the feeling. "It could be anyone," she muttered to herself. "No reason to think it's him." But she couldn't convince herself, and finally she turned and strode back towards the courtyard, thinking to go to the Steward's chamber to see if someone there could reassure her . Before she reached the fountain, however, she spotted Imrahil near the Citadel's gate. Hurrying towards him she started to call out, but suddenly realized she didn't know _what_ to call him. Imrahil? Prince? Prince Imrahil? My lord? But he glanced up and saw her, and saved her from getting it wrong.

"My lady," he said, coming forward.

"Good morning, sir," she said, smiling. "It's good to see you again."

"And you," he replied.

There was a brief pause, and before it got awkward, Maggie decided to cut right to it. "Do you know where I might find Faramir?" she asked. "His brother asked me to see him today, but I don't know where to look."

Imrahil's expression darkened. "Where is Lord Boromir?" he asked.

Maggie frowned. "Denethor sent him with four of Faramir's Rangers to see about boats coming up the river... um... Eruil? something like that. They went early."

Before she'd finished speaking, Imrahil had raised his eyes to the sky and a hand to his face. "Oh, I feared this," he said softly, then looked at Maggie again. "The river Erui, and there are no boats." He shook his head. "Denethor sent Boromir down the South Road so he would be away when Faramir was sent to the northeast, to Osgiliath."

"I don't understand," said Maggie. "Why would - what's Denethor doing?"

"It is a cruel ploy," said Imrahil, his low voice angry. "The Steward fears Faramir's influence on his brother. He has no sense of Boromir's true nature if he thinks the man's mind could be swayed to ill by affection, but he blames Faramir for each disagreement between father and eldest son." Imrahil's eyes narrowed, as he continued, "He thinks to remove Faramir's influence by sending him to die in forlorn defense of a city doomed to fall."

Maggie drew a breath, and shook her head. "No," she said, "no - he - Faramir's his _son_, he wouldn't - would he?"

Imrahil sighed. "Once, no," he said. "But now?"

She pressed a hand to her mouth, then said, "We have to find Boromir and tell him."

"To what purpose?" asked Imrahil. "He cannot countermand his father's order, either to himself or to Faramir. And even if he could, we have no way to find him."

"What about Faramir's Rangers?" she asked. "One of them could find them, couldn't he? can't they find just about anything?"

"Aye," said Imrahil, "but all of Faramir's Rangers have gone with Faramir," and he paused, "except, it seems, the four who were sent with his brother."

Stepping towards the gate that led out of the Citadel, Maggie said, "Well, someone has to find him, or - something," but she felt Imrahil's hand on her arm and resisted the urge to jerk it away from him.

"Lady," he said, "please. Take my council. Boromir will return 'ere nightfall, and he will do what he must then. But now," and Imrahil turned her to face him, "now, he must do as the Steward commands, as must Faramir. I like it no better than you," he went on, the anger in his voice ill-disguised, "for both these men are my friends, and both are ill-used by the Steward." He stepped back from the gate, pulling her with him. "But to fly after him into the wilderness with the Enemy in the land," he shook his head. "It is folly, and he would thank neither of us for it."

She took a breath and put her hand to her face. "Look, I'm - I've got friends with me, we've got weapons, we could -"

"No!" and he gripped her arm tightly, not letting her go. "Do _not_," he said, and glanced away, then met her eyes. "If you found him, and told him what his father has done," he said in a raw whisper, "he _would_ abandon his mission and he _would_ go after his brother, and the Steward lacks neither power nor cruelty when his will is dismissed." He smiled a grim smile then. "The dungeons of Minas Tirith are seldom used, but they are there, and they are," he hesitated, "unpleasant."

"Christ," she said, "what kind of place _is_ this, where a father would send one son to go die and put the other in prison?"

Imrahil cupped her cheek gently, then let her go. "It is a troubled place," he said, his voice thick. "Beset from without and within, by enemy and friend alike."

Maggie stepped away from him then, and sat down on the wall that surrounded the fountain. "Damn it all to hell," she muttered, then looked at Imrahil. "So what, then?" she asked. "Just wait for Boromir to come back?"

He inclined his head. "If you have gods," he said, "you could pray to them."

She gave a little bark of laughter. "I don't think I've stopped praying since I got here," she said, then glanced back towards the quarters from which she didn't think the others had emerged. "Listen," she said, glancing back at Imrahil, "I'll go out of my head if I don't do something besides wait. Is there someplace my friends and I could train? Like - I don't know, an unused stable or something, where there's some hay for padding?" He looked at her strangely and she explained, "There's a lot of falling, and a certain amount of getting tossed around, and it's better to train under circumstances where there's a little padding on the ground, so you don't get injured _before_ you're fighting for real."

Imrahil considered, and shook his head thoughtfully, then said, "The paddocks are the only place which might suit, and they're being used by the weaponsmasters as extra training grounds for sword practice. But," he continued after a moment, "if you'd be interested in learning another kind of fighting, I think I could find a weaponsmaster who would be willing to begin instructing you and your people in the basics of wielding a blade."

"That'll do nicely," said Maggie, standing up. "Let me go wake the others, and change into something I don't mind ruining."

It was well past nightfall when Boromir returned. Maggie was standing again at the embrasure when she saw the five riders approach the Gate. She was clean, finally, after a day spent sweating with the weaponsmaster Erendur, and had changed back into the clothes she'd worn earlier, Boromir's scent still on the shirt. She'd eaten then with the others, but when they'd gone with Erendur to an ale house near the Gate, she'd stayed above, restless and uninterested in company, except for one. She watched them approach, saw them disappear from sight into the City below, and finally she turned and went back to her quarters. Inside, she lit a candle, then took the gunbelt from the small cabinet where she'd stowed it and buckled it on, checked that Desire and Despair were loaded, and, after hesitating, went ahead and added the boot knives. Thus armed, she walked to the fountain and waited for Boromir to arrive.

She didn't wait long. Behind him came four men dressed in brown and green, and she knew those must be the Rangers who'd gone with him. She was glad to see they all returned with him. All appeared to be unarmed, and they were headed for Denethor's chambers. She took a step foward as they passed, and Boromir caught the movement and reached her in a few long strides.

"There weren't any ships, were there." It was a statement.

He shook his head. "What do you know of this?"

"He'll probably tell you himself," she said, "but," and she hesitated. The Rangers waited patiently, Boromir less so. She wondered if they'd be angry too, having been sent on a make-work errand so that Boromir wouldn't be around to interfere with their captain being sent off to die.

"What is it?" he asked, his hands on her shoulders. "Did you see Faramir today?"

"Aw, baby," she said, scowling. "I saw Faramir leave. I - Denethor - "

When she didn't continue, he gave her a quick shake, frowning. "Tell me, lady," he said. "It can be no worse to hear it from you than another. What has happened while we have been scouting for phantom enemies?"

She looked away and said softly, "Denethor sent Faramir with a company of men to Osgiliath, to try to hold the city. Imrahil says it's hopeless." She'd started to tell him the rest of what Imrahil had said - that Denethor planned for Faramir to die, but she found the words wouldn't come.

A hiss of anger escaped his lips and he spun on his heel, striding towards the Steward's chambers, three of the Rangers following.

The fourth, however, cast a quick eye over Maggie, and said softly, "Come, lady, I think your presence could be useful."

Surprised, she followed, falling into step behind him. When they came to the Steward's chamber, the guards outside it stepped aside, and Boromir threw the heavy doors open and strode in, every muscle screaming rage. The Rangers and Maggie entered behind him, and when the guard held out a hand to stop Maggie, the fourth Ranger shook his head and pulled her inside, motioning to the guards to close the door and stopping further protest with a steely gaze. "Do you think the Steward's son and four Rangers are not enough to protect the Steward from one woman?" At that, the guards shut the doors, and the Ranger who'd pulled her inside now motioned her to the shadows behind him.

Denethor sat in the same chair from which he'd interrogated her when they met, its carven back rising above his head like the high mantle of a robe. He watched Boromir approach, his face stony. When his eldest son stopped in front of him, he inclined his head and said in silky tones, "What news from Erui, Captain?"

"What you expected, my lord," Boromir replied, his voice equally silky, but cold, the final words dropping from his lips like poison. "There are no boats, my lord," he went on, "nor enemies, nor indeed, men at arms of any kind save myself and these four loyal Rangers of Captain Faramir's company," still advancing on the Steward. "But this you knew already, my lord," he said, with each utterance the poison growing sharper. He put one foot on the low dais that raised Denethor's chair. "Tell me, my lord," he said, his raw voice unable to hide all of his fury, "if it please you, my lord," and he leaned forward then, resting one hand on his raised knee. Maggie thought she saw Denethor shrink back, almost imperceptibly, from his son's trembling form. "Where is my brother, Faramir?"

There was a long silence. Denethor's face, lit by the red glow from the brazier, looked as if he gazed at a sworn enemy, not his favorite son. Finally, his voice scarcely above a whisper, but striking like a blade through the still air, he said, "Your brother, Faramir, is gone to Osgiliath, Captain, to hold the city."

"Osgiliath is lost, my lord," Boromir replied tightly, "as you well know, and the men there should be returning to where their deaths will at least have meaning." With a growl he flung himself away from the Steward and paced to the opposite side of the room, his cloak swirling about him like a shadow. "Why have you done this?" he cried, turning again to face Denethor. "What possible use has this to you? How many of our soldiers will die in this - this fool's mission?!"

"Do you call me a fool?" Denethor roared, standing suddenly as though to an attack. Boromir started towards him then, and Maggie thought for a moment the two would come to blows, but Denethor sat back and Boromir hesitated, then stopped, halfway between the Rangers and the Steward. "You four," the Steward said, nodding to the Rangers. "Leave us." They glanced at Boromir, who gave an almost imperceptible nod, and the four of them slipped quietly out. Maggie, however, unnoticed in her shadow, didn't move, and the fourth Ranger caught her eye as he left, and put a finger to his lips. "Faramir," said Denethor then. "Faramir is a fool, and a coward," and Maggie felt her heart grow cold, her eyes fixed on Boromir, who stood still as stone between Maggie and the Steward. "You are besotted with him, because he is so very different from you," Denethor continued, "but he is weak, and you will not see it."

"Weak?" said Boromir, disbelief in his voice. "Weak? You are mad if you believe that," he said, shaking his head. "And you are mad if you believe I will not go after him and bring him, and his company, and what men we can rescue from that doomed city, back to Minas Tirith."

Denethor snarled. "You will _not_," he said. "Has it come to this? has your brother so manipulated your mind that you would turn against your own father?"

"No!" Boromir's voice was equally fierce. "No, my lord, it is not my brother who has manipulated _my_ mind, but Saruman who has manipulated yours with that foul seeing stone!" 

"Do not fight with me, Boromir!" With a muffled curse Boromir turned from his father then and started for the door, but Denethor leaned forward slightly, smiling a sickening smile. "Boromir," he said softly, and his son stopped, but didn't turn. "Face me, my son, my soldier. My disloyal Captain."

Reluctantly, Boromir turned to his father, his back straight, his hand falling to where his sword would have been, had he carried it.

Denethor brought a finger to his lips, still smiling, and shook his head ever so slightly. "Ah, my son," he said. "It would do you credit could you see your brother for what he is, and not for what you would have him be."

"And what is he, father?" asked Boromir, his voice like crushed velvet slipping through the cool air of the chamber. "What is he? Not as bloodthirsty as you would like? Not as impetuous? From whence, my lord," he said, stepping forward, "comes your hatred of the second son my mother bore you?"

Denethor jerked backwards in his chair as though he'd been struck, a hiss of breath leaving his lips. "You will not speak so to me, Boromir," he said in a growl.

"I wish only to understand," Boromir replied, his voice gentle, but Maggie heard the stones beneath it, like stones in a graveyard. "If you forbid me from going to my own brother's aid, I would at least understand why."

"It is not your place to understand, only to obey!" Steel and blood were in Denethor's eyes, and his face was twisted in a scowl.

Boromir strode forward then and Denethor pressed back in his chair, opening his mouth to speak, but stopped when Boromir suddenly, unexpectedly, dropped to his knees in front of him and took his hands between his own, lowering his head to kiss them. "My lord," he said, his voice low, "I have been in all ways your obedient son, and your _loyal_ Captain. I have given you all that I am. Please, allow me this. Allow me my brother."

Denethor reclaimed one hand and stroked Boromir's hair back from his face, caressed his cheek gently, Boromir pressing into the touch as one who's spent too long in the wilderness presses his cheek to the soft pillow of his own bed. The Steward slipped his hand to the strong curve of his son's neck and held him, then, and Maggie was struck by the image, Boromir on his knees before the Steward, his head down, pleading to be allowed the chance to go after a brother who should never have been sent away. Then the Steward raised his eyes and suddenly she felt his glance alight on her, and she quailed, for the first time afraid for herself instead of her lover. The Steward looked at her as one who has just seen the final move in a long game of chess, and waits only to take the King.

"Oh, my son," said Denethor gently, returning his gaze to the man who knelt before him, "your weakness betrays you." Boromir raised his eyes to his father's. "No, Boromir," he went on, "I see now my decision was correct. I cannot let Faramir corrupt you further. I have need of you still - you must take the throne. If you can kneel before me and beg, I fear you lack the strength already, but perhaps your brother's absence will put the steel back in you."

Boromir rose to his feet. "The seeing stone has twisted your mind," he said in a snarl, and started towards the door. "I will go to Osgiliath, and you will thank me for it when your mind is your own again!"

"You will not!" Denethor cried. "You will remain here if I have to have you locked in a cage! Call your whore out of the shadows and face me, Captain!" 

At that, Boromir stopped and turned, confusion on his face. Maggie stepped forward. He spun to face her, his eyes widening, and she shook her head, glanced towards the door through which the Rangers had left. Boromir came forward and took her arm, and she whispered, "He told me to come - I thought - "

Boromir shook his head, and turned to his father. "You speak in anger, lord, but what has this woman done that you would dishonor her so?"

Denethor laughed. "What has she done?" he asked. "Why, she has presumed upon _you_, and upon your affections. She weakens you as your brother does, troubling your heart and your thoughts when they should be fixed on one goal alone - the throne of Gondor!"

Boromir paled, and his voice shook when he replied. "You do not speak your own mind," he said, and Maggie could hear the barely contained violence that lay just below the surface of his soft tone.

"How _dare_ you answer me so!" Denethor cried, rising from his chair. "Ah, I should have killed that weakling brother of yours in his cradle! He has turned you against me, but I _will_ have you back, my son," and in the firelight the Steward looked like a demon, his face a mask, his eyes hard and hot as twin coals. "I will have you back from your brother and from your bitch as well. Faramir is gone, Boromir, and if you do not acquiesce, this outworlder will be as well! Think of them both as dead, for so she will be if you disobey me, and he will be dead in truth soon enough!" 

Denethor looked to the door where the guard waited on the other side, but with a howl of rage, Boromir's hands were at Maggie's hip, and before she could stop him he'd drawn Desire and was sighting down the barrel at his father. "I will kill you where you stand, _my lord_," he said, his voice low but clear, "if you speak another word." Denethor started to step off the dais but at Boromir's hiss, he stopped, his face pale. "Sit," Boromir said, and Denethor did, though he was tight as a bowstring, outraged and afraid.

"You use the weapon of your whore against me thus?" he said, his low voice trembling.

"You would do well not to anger me further, _my lord_," said Boromir, and Maggie hardly recognized his voice, it was so changed, sharp as a blade, but as warm and full of menace as newly spilled blood. "Do you like me better now?" he said, cocking his head to one side, walking now towards the Steward, the pistol never wavering. "Am I more your son now? Impetuous, bloodthirsty, kneeling before no one? Is my steel strong enough for you now, my lord Steward?"

Denethor was pale, but when he spoke, his voice had lost none of its harshness. "This is the man who could take the throne," he said. "Yes, I do like you better now, better than the groveling dog at my feet, begging after your cur of a brother!"

With a low growl, Boromir reached the dais and pressed the pistol to his father's cheek. Denethor shrank away as Boromir caressed his face with his free hand, the intimate gesture strangely tender, mirroring his father's earlier caress, stroking his thumb across his father's beard, his lips, the barrel of the gun slowly pressing harder against him. Denethor's face was white, his eyes locked on his son's. Then, without warning, Boromir drew back that caressing hand and delivered a hard, quick blow to the bottom of the older man's chin, and Denethor slumped, unconscious. Instantly Boromir turned and grabbed Maggie's arm, and with a sudden gasp she ran with him to the door. "He'll sleep a few moments," he said, "minutes if luck is with us, but no longer. Shh," and slipping the gun under his cloak he opened the door. The guards stepped back, Boromir followed Maggie out, and shut the doors behind them. The Rangers were waiting outside, and Boromir gestured to them to follow. Quickly they made for the gate that led out of the Citadel, passed through it, and in moments were at the stables. No one was nearby, and Boromir spoke is hushed tones. "The Steward is ill," he said, taking a saddle and heading for one of the stalls. The Rangers and Maggie followed suit. "We ride to Osgiliath tonight with what men we can muster to fetch your captain and his company from a doomed mission. Not you," he said to Maggie as she too reached for a saddle. 

Her eyes widened. "Are you kidding?" she said. "What am I supposed to do here? He'll fucking kill me!"

"No," said Boromir, turning back to the mount he'd chosen and heaving the saddle onto the animal's back. "He will not know where to find you until after we have returned, and he will have other concerns then."

"I'm not staying here to wait around and see if you come back a corpse, or if I'm made into one," she said.

Boromir turned to her, and she saw traces still of the fury that had gripped him in Denethor's chamber. "You are," he said, and nodded to one of the Rangers, who came forward and took her arm.

"Lady," said the Ranger, "if you will."

Angry now, she pulled away from him. "I will not! Look," she turned on Boromir, "you took my gun, I want it back, and I want you to -" but he rounded on her then and gripped the back of her neck, pulling her face close to his.

"You will do as you are _told_," he said, his voice a ragged snarl, "and you will do it without dissent, and without delay. I have not time for this, and I will not lose you both!" With that, he shoved her brutally into the arms of the Ranger, and said, "Do what you must - chain her if you have to - but keep her here and keep her safe. I'll come for her when I return."

She started to wrench free of the Ranger's grip, but he felt the movement before she made it and swift as a cat he slipped his arm around her throat, cradling her windpipe in the curve of his elbow and trapping her left arm behind her with his, her shoulder twisted back. He pulled up then on her throat until she was on her toes, and his voice came soft in her ear, "I must do as the Captain bids me, lady, and he's told us somewhat of you. I believe you are a woman not to be trifled with, nor underestimated." She gripped his encircling arm with her free hand, taking some of the pressure off her throat and trying to tuck her chin, but his grip was too close.

"Let me go!" she said in a savage, strangled growl. "I'm not yours to order around!"

Boromir glanced at them then, and Maggie caught his gaze. "No, you are mine," he said, then gestured to the Ranger. Releasing her trapped arm he tightened his grip on her throat, pressing her head forward with his other hand, and though she had both hands on his arm now she couldn't gain the space she needed for blood to flow again, and the world narrowed to a bright center with stars at its edges, and then went out.

When she opened her eyes again, her hands were bound behind her and she was being carried in strong arms. "You wake," said the Ranger who had choked her. "Good." The others were gone, and the Ranger set her on her feet beside his mount, slipped her foot into the stirrup, then lifted her, and having few options, she swung her leg over and settled herself awkwardly in the saddle. In a breath he had mounted behind her and was urging the steed out of the stables into the darkness.

"How long was I out? why haven't guards come yet?" she asked.

"Not long," he said, "and they did - they came almost as you fell to unconsciousness," the Ranger answered, "but they were persuaded not to pursue."

She hesitated, then said, "Persuaded?"

The Ranger chuckled. "They were honestly persuaded," he said. "The men love Boromir, and honor him, and they, too, see the Steward's... illness. Never the less, it will be good the more quickly we get you to my cousin's home. Not all the guard feels as the men we met tonight, but you'll not be sought there."

"Do you have to have my hands tied?" she asked irritably.

"Yes, lady," he said, "I believe I do. You show signs of neither womanly submission nor soldierly obediance, and I would not risk the Captain's wrath were aught to happen to you, be it from your own stubbornness or my carelessness."

She started to respond angrily, then paused, and smiled slightly. "He does have something of a temper when sufficiently provoked," she said at last.

"Aye, lady," he said, and she could hear humor in his voice, "that he does."

She considered. "What if I promise to be cooperative?" she asked.

He hesitated, then said, "I am sorry, lady, but I do not know what oath you could take that I could trust. I see how you look at him," he went on, "what you fear. Were I in your position, I would not be trustworthy, I think."

Frowning, Maggie twisted in the saddle to see the man's face. "Hey," she said, "you're the one who told me to come with y'all. What in god's name for?"

"When you said the Steward had sent Captain Faramir to Osgiliath," he replied, "I knew Lord Boromir would intend to retreive him, and that the Lord Steward would not allow it. We do not go armed into the presence of the Steward, and I did not relish the thought of one Captain dead and the other imprisoned. I thought it would be good if Lord Boromir had a third option, one that required neither obedience nor a cage, and he had told us of your strange weapons. When I saw you carried them..." and he trailed off.

"You didn't think it might make the Steward even angrier?"

She felt him shrug. "I knew it would," he replied, "but it seemed a better alternative than the others. He would never have allowed the Captain to fetch his brother home, and while I regret any distress it may have caused you, or him, I believe this course of action is for the best." He paused, then said, "Were his brother to die, and he locked in a cage and unable to go to his aid, Boromir's soul would have no peace this side of the grave. Would you have that for him?"

She shook her head. "No, I just hope it doesn't wind up getting me killed, or him. Or Faramir."

"Each day of life brings hope with it," the Ranger answered. "Better to live one more day in honor, and action, than a hundred years in grief."

The Ranger's name, she learned, was Haerendil, and the cousin he took her to was Meylari, a woman of around forty years, a few streaks of grey silvering her pale blond hair, and the look of someone who could be equally kind as harsh, perhaps both at once.

"Welcome," she said as Haerendil helped Maggie dismount, then she turned to the Ranger. "Your brother told me you were coming, and some of what has happened. They've ridden on, but will expect your coming."

He nodded, and Meylari took Maggie's arm. "Come inside, lady," she said, glancing around. "'Tis best not to linger." She turned to Haernedil then and said softly, "Return whole, cousin."

"And with my Captain," he replied, then turned his mount towards the gate and departed in a clatter of hooves on stone.

Inside, the house was warm and lit by the soft glow of several lanterns, a small fire burning in the grate. Meylari brought Maggie into the main room, wherein were a table, a small cabinet, four chairs, and a cat asleep on a small rug by the fire. "Oo," said Maggie, smiling, "lovely cat."

Meylari smiled back. "She's called Snowpad, for her light step and her white feet," she said.

Maggie laughed. "Cute."

"Come lady," said Meylari, "my cousin may not trust you, but I'd not have you a prisoner in my home. Let me unbind your hands."

Maggie looked at her. "Why don't you think I'll make a break for it?"

She looked puzzled. "Why do I not think you'll leave?" she asked. "Why, where would you go? Into the dark after my cousin, on foot? back to the stables, to be caught by the guard?" She shook her head. "Nay lady," she said, "you do not seem a fool to me. Come now," and she motioned Maggie to turn her hands to her. Maggie did, and in a few moments she was free, rubbing her wrists.

"Thank you," she said. "They were starting to go numb."

She chuckled. "Haeren is strict in his duty to his Captain," she said. "I fear he'd have let your poor hands drop off before he'd have risked losing you, and feeling the combined wrath of the Steward's sons."

Smiling, Maggie reached down to stroke the cat, which rolled over obligingly and began to purr. "Yeah, he's quick with the choke, too. He should join my team."

"Of your team," Meylari said then, and glanced up, "your friends? Haeren's brother told me that you have," and here she faltered, uncertain, "companions from far lands, who will be wondering where you are in the morning."

Maggie nodded. "They'll be none too happy about this," she said.

"My friend," said Meylari, "for so I hope I may call you, I must beg you to consider, carefully, before taking any action."

Maggie chuckled. "What sort of action am I likely to take?" she asked.

Smiling, Meylari replied, "I would not presume to suggest one, but I imagine you are not without resources. But lady," she went on, leaning forward, serious now, "please, use them not. You are safe here, but the Steward cannot be depended upon for clear thought." She hesitated, then said, "I do not wish to frighten you, and I have been assured that all will be made right when the Steward's sons return, but you must not be seen in the streets of the City. Captain Boromir worries for your saftey if you fell into the Steward's hands." 

"He's the one who left me here," she muttered.

"Be glad he did," Meylari said softly, but in her voice was worry. "Their mission is dangerous, and some will not return. It would have weighed on his mind, were you there, and right or wrong he'd have thought to protect you. More might have died, because of that."

Maggie wanted to protest, but didn't. Doubtless Meylari was right, however much Maggie might have wished Boromir respected her skills more than that. "So I'm to stay here until they come back?" she asked. Meylari nodded. "But what about my friends?"

Meylari turned away. "The Steward may have them arrested," she said, "though he'll do no worse than that until he has found you."

Maggie gave a short bark of laughter. "Well, great. Listen, can you get a note to them somehow, whether they're still in the Citadel or already arrested?"

She nodded, then turned to the cabinet behind the table and opened a drawer, brought out parchment, ink, and a quill, and Maggie seated herself at the table and wrote out a quick note.

> _Mira,_
> 
> _ Take the others and go back home. See if y'all can stay with Michael's friend Chip - it sounded like Sorrow doesn't know anything about him and won't make a connection, or look for you there. Things are shaky here, Denethor's unstable, and there's a possibility he's going to have you arrested - or has already, I don't even know. Just give me a few days to get things settled down here, and then come back._
> 
> _You're a good friend. Watch out for the others. And don't delay. I'll be fine as long as I know you are._
> 
> _ All my love,  
Maggie _

She blew on it to dry the ink, then folded it over and handed it to Meylari, who took it and then took her cloak from a peg near the door.

She turned to Maggie then. "Do not leave this place," she said. "For anything. On your honor?"

Maggie laughed, remembering Denethor's words. "Define 'honor'," she said. "I think there are people here who'd say I don't have any."

Meylari crossed the room in three long strides, and placed her hand on Maggie's shoulder. "Haeren's brother also told me of your bravery, of which," and she smiled, "Lord Boromir spoke at great length. And he said that you have lightened the heart of one much troubled. Your honor is not in doubt to me."

Startled, Maggie smiled at the other woman. "Thank you," she said. "I promise, I'll stay here. On my honor."


	10. Waiting

I don't own any part of LOTR and I'm certainly making no money from this, but I'm more grateful to Mr. Tolkien than I can say for creating such a rich world that so many people want to engage with it themselves. [See previous chapters for other disclaimers.] 

Still relying on The Complete Guide To Middle Earth, by Robert Foster (recommended by Christopher Tolkien in his preface to Unfinished Tales of Middle Earth), and The Atlas Of Middle Earth, revised edition, by Karen Wynn Fonstad.

Note: There's a lot more foul language in this chapter than previous ones, and I don't mean "the Black Speech of Mordor." Tempers run high amongst our outworlders, and good old-fashioned Anglo-Saxon swear words abound. Just be warned.

**An End To Innocence**

**Chapter Ten: Waiting**

"Why do I always start to wake up just when I should be going to bed?" Maggie muttered to herself irritably. Meylari had returned an hour or more ago, and had gotten her settled in the small guest room, but as soon as Meylari had gone to bed herself, Maggie had become wide awake. Now she lay curled under the blankets in one of Meylari's nightshirts, wondering where Mira and the others were, if they'd gone home as she'd asked. Meylari had assured her they hadn't yet been arrested, though apparently a soldier of the guard had come to see if Maggie was with them. He'd left upon finding that she wasn't, and Meylari had arrived shortly after, just in time to stop her friends from going into the City to look for her. Meylari hadn't thought they were well-pleased, by either the inquiring guard or the note.

Suddenly there was a faint thud and a muffled curse in the direction of the main room. Maggie sat up, her heart pounding, and listened for other noise, but there came none. Carefully, quietly, she slipped out of bed and crept to the door of her room, and stood listening, but no sound reached her ears. Soft as a whisper she crept back to her bed and drew her remaining pistol from underneath it, then went back to the door. Finally, she opened it and peeked out. In the dim glow from the embers in the grate, she made out a lithe silhouette she recognized. "Hsst!" she whispered. "Mira!"

Mira looked to the sound, then reached out to touch the shoulder of another slim figure, and the two women carefully picked their way through the dimness to where Maggie waited. "There you are," Mira whispered. "God, I didn't know _where_ we landed." She and Janet came into the room and Maggie shut the door. "I still don't, actually," her voice low, but Maggie wondered if she heard irritation in it.

"It's the home of a cousin of one of the Rangers in Faramir's company," said Maggie, and Mira let out a little snort.

"I need a scorecard," she said, "or a cast listing or something. A cousin of a Ranger of a brother of a son of a Steward. Geez." She took Janet's arm then, and Maggie realized the other woman was trembling. "Come on, she needs to rest."

Maggie helped Mira get Janet to the bed, where Janet lay down passively and let Maggie pull the covers up over her. "What are you doing here? Where are the others?" Maggie asked.

"They're at Chip's," Mira answered, "like you said to do. But I'm none too fucking happy about it, and I want to know what the hell is going on."

Maggie frowned. "What are you pissed about?"

A short bark of laughter. "What am I pissed about?" she asked. "Just 'cause you disappeared on me and then sent a _note_ ordering us home like fucking children?"

Shaking her head, Maggie said, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that. It's just, I didn't know what else to do. Things got so fucked up."

"Yeah," said Mira, "I sorta figured that out when the guard came looking for you." She sat down on the edge of the bed and went on, sounding only slightly appeased by Maggie's apology. "So what do you mean Denethor's 'unstable' and might have us arrested? Can't that knight you've been shagging get us out of whatever it is we've done?"

"It's not what we've done, really," she said, "it's just... what's happening." She told Mira then about Denethor's strange behavior, and the seeing stone, and about Boromir's reaction to the news that Faramir had been sent to Osgiliath. "So now," she finished, "Boromir and the rest of Faramir's Rangers have gone to go try to bring him and his men back, if they can, before the whole thing turns into a rout."

"Shit," said Mira. "He pulled a gun on his _father_?"

Maggie nodded. "Yeah, it totally freaked me out. And Denethor."

"I can imagine." Mira paused. "So didn't it freak Boromir out? What - is he in the habit of threatening his pop with deadly weapons?"

She let out a snort. "On the contrary, he's in the habit of doing exactly what dad wants, except that now dad wants Faramir dead so Boromir can - well, can be a usurper, basically."

"You got some twisted shit here, babe," said Mira. "This is like daytime talk show crap, y'know?" 

In the darkness, Maggie smiled faintly. "Yeah, only worse, 'cause of the whole 'fate of Middle Earth' thing."

"Hey, I've been meaning to ask," said Mira, perplexed, "what's it in the middle _of_?"

Maggie chuckled, then shrugged. "The middle of a war, as far as I can tell. Apart from that, your guess is as good as mine." Maggie sat, her back to the bed, and leaned against the frame. "How are the guys holding up?" she asked. "It's weird, you know, never knowing for sure what's going on with the others."

"They're okay," Mira answered. "It's tough on them when we come here with the talisman and leave them there, though, not knowing for sure whether we'll ever make it back."

"Indeed. If only the mobile phones would work across the space-time continuum, or whatever it is we're dealing with here."

"Yeah," said Mira, "we need an interdimensional digital phone service, damn it."

Janet had fallen asleep moments after lying down, but she shifted then and Mira and Maggie flinched, and waited to see if she'd wake. She didn't, and Maggie whispered, "We should probably try to sleep too. Is there room for you by Janet?"

"Yeah," she said, "but we should flip a coin or something."

"Nah," said Maggie, shaking her head. "I'm fine." Glancing around she spotted her cloak on the chair, and pulled it down to her, wrapping it around herself and lying down. "I got kind of used to the 'not sleeping in a bed' paradigm when we were coming from Isengard."

Another little snort from Mira and she said, "Yeah, you're a regular campfire girl." Maggie held her tongue, figuring it was just stress making Mira irritable. A little while later, Mira said softly, her voice gentle at last, "Maggie, how long have you been here? In Middle Earth, I mean, not just the city."

Startled at the question, Maggie stopped and thought about it. It took her a while, but finally she said, "I don't think I know exactly.... Two weeks, give or take, I guess. Why?"

"You just seem so..." Mira paused, looking for the word. "So acclimated. Talking about things like Isengard and Osgilawhatever, and - and 'seeing stones', and Rangers and stuff, like you've lived here for years. Aren't you homesick?"

Maggie hesitated, then said brightly, "Well, not right now," smiling. "You're here. I miss y'all when you're not."

"But home," Mira said. "Don't you miss... like, television? Computers? Fast food?"

"Mobile phones?" Maggie said with a smile. "Yeah, I miss those things. I miss hot baths, and cars, good moisturizer, my own bed.... Of course I do." But as she lay there, waiting for sleep to come, she searched for homesickness in her heart, and she couldn't find it. Home was fighting an impossible enemy - apathy and corruption so widely spread you could never get your hands on it, could never grasp the entire problem and fix it. Home was struggling against selfishness and poverty and the despair of never knowing how to make things better, of small victories followed by staggering defeats. Home was harder than this, and bleaker, the doom that came from the east notwithstanding.

Of course, now that she could get from one world to the other, it was easier to find this doom a lighter burden. She could leave it, after all.

The next morning passed slowly. Meylari was indeed surprised to find that extra houseguests had arrived during the night, but not so surprised that she failed to make them welcome. "After all," she'd said with a smile, "in such difficult times, we must be prepared to offer hospitality to all who come in friendship." Janet was still drained, but with breakfast and a tea Meylari brewed that smelled of jasmine and new grass, soon the young wizard was sitting by the fire talking animatedly with Meylari about life in Minas Tirith, life back home, and what it was like being a woman alone in such societies.

Still, Maggie was getting more and more restless. "I wish there were some way we could find out what's going on," she said to Meylari as she helped the other clean up from the morning meal.

Meylari considered, then said, "I may be able to find word. My sister's husband Benneth is in the guard, but though he is a steadfast friend, I think I could discover somewhat of the situation without placing a burden of secrecy on him."

Maggie glanced at her. "Are all the men in this city soldiers?" she asked, and Meylari laughed.

"No, my friend," she said, "but the soldiers of this city and their families do share a common bond, which brings us often together. Thus my sister met, and married, our cousin's friend, and he became my friend in the bargain."

"What about you?" asked Maggie. "I mean, you're - you don't seem like you'd have to be alone, if..." and she hesitated.

"You wonder why am I unmarried?" Meylari replied with a smile. "I fear I haven't the taste for it," she said. "I don't..." and now she hesitated, then said lightly, but with an undertone of caution, "I don't prefer the company of men."

"Ah," and Maggie nodded.

"I do not shock you, I hope."

"What?" Maggie looked up, startled. "Oh, gosh no," and she chuckled. "Most of the time I wish I didn't. They seem like so much more trouble than they're worth, so much of the time."

"But not all of the time," the other woman said with a smile, and Maggie blushed.

"No, not all of the time," and she looked at Meylari out of the corner of her eye. "Does everyone know about this thing?"

She laughed and lay her hand on Maggie's shoulder. "I dare say only those who've watched you together, or have seen the embroidery of the shirt you wear," and she touched the leaves that graced the cuff of Maggie's sleeve. "Here," she said, tracing the pattern, "the leaves, and the slender branches that bear them. The Steward's son often wears this pattern." She smiled. "'Tis perhaps the one soft thing about him, at least that any who do not know him might see."

Maggie's blush deepened. "I didn't think, when I put it on, I just...."

"It becomes you," said Meylari, humor in her voice, "as does the sweet blush you wear. But do not feel shy," she went on, turning to set a platter back on its shelf. "You follow your heart, as do I. As do all who one day win happiness." She smiled then. "Now," she said, "an errand calls me. If you can remain in patience a while longer, I shall pay my sister's husband a visit."

The afternoon dragged on.

"Well, look," said Mira finally, "we've gotta figure out a plan of action here."

Maggie nodded. "Yeah. Well, Plan A is wait for Boromir to come back with his brother and fix the whole mess."

"I don't like plans that rely on someone else coming back to fix the whole mess."

Nodding her agreement again, Maggie murmured, "Yeah, me neither."

"I mean, what if they both come back dead?"

Maggie's heart clenched, and she drew a breath.

Mira reached out and took her hand. "Shit, I'm sorry babe," she said. "I didn't mean to say it like that."

Shaking her head, Maggie replied, "No, you're right. They may come back dead, or they may not come back at all, and we still have to deal with this."

"And Sorrow."

"Yeah. He's a big issue. If not for him, we could just go the hell home."

"And speaking of, I don't want to leave the others there longer than we have to."

"How many of us do we have now?" asked Maggie. "There's us five, plus Janet, plus Michael. What about Chip?"

"He can go either way, I think," said Mira. "He'll come help if they want the weapons and training after all, or he'll stay home and wait for us to get back. We talked to him about the situation," she continued, "and it looks like this crowd here is going to want to deal with Sorrow, or Saruman, or whoever he is, at some point, and that's all Chip cares about." She smiled a tight smile, and added, "Of course, we didn't tell him about the part where they might think they wanna kill Saruman here and make our world go poof."

Maggie nodded. "Good thinking - he might not love that part. So seven, really." She looked around the small room. "I don't think they'll fit in here."

Mira chuckled. "No, I don't think so."

"How long do you think they'll be safe at Chip's?"

"No telling," she answered. "He's looking for us, that's for sure."

Maggie found herself again biting the tip of her finger, her brow furrowed. "I don't know," she said, "I can talk to Meylari, see if there's someplace else we could go."

"Tell me again where your guy's gone off to?"

"Osgiliath," she said. "It's a city to the northeast, near the border of Gondor and Mordor."

"Do you know how to get there?"

Maggie chuckled. "Go northeast?" she suggested. "Meylari might know."

"We should have gotten a map from her before she left," said Mira. "We can see if she's got one when she gets back, though - that should still give us hours before dark."

"To do what?" asked Maggie, glancing up from where she drew invisible patterns on the table.

Mira cocked an eyebrow. "Well, to get the guys, and the guns, and go after them." At Maggie's blank look she frowned. "What - you aren't planning to just sit here 'till they get back, are you?"

Her brow furrowing, Maggie said, "Well, yeah, actually, I was."

Mira shook her head, disbelieving. "Maggie, we need to deal with this."

"And we will," Maggie said. "If they come back dead," her skin cold at the thought, "we can head towards Dunharrow and catch up with Aragorn's army," and she held up a hand when Mira started to speak. "Or, just let me finish," she went on, "if they don't come back at all, by, say, tomorrow night, then maybe take some firepower and go after them, but we've gotta give them a chance to get back here before we do something that could make it worse." She sat back then, looking at her friend. "We're not going to go headlong into some war zone when the guy in charge of the war ordered me to -"

"Hey - since when do you follow orders from some guy?" asked Mira, her tone heated.

"Since the guy started being the captain of the goddamned army," Maggie answered, matching Mira's tone.

"Oh!" and Mira laughed derisively, "so he's _your_ captain, and that puts _me_ in his army now too? _That's_ what we have to deal with, Maggie. Since when do we act like a bunch of fucking recruits? We are independent operators," enunciating each syllable, "or did you forget that part?"

"What the hell is going on with you?" asked Maggie, leaning forward now, catching in the corner of her eye Janet's slim figure slipping quietly out of the room.

"Look," she said, "Chip may run his little anti-gang, anti-terrorist, anti-whatever cell like a regiment, but _we_ work as _equals_," her words sharp and clipped. "Or we did. I don't like being ordered around by my fucking teammate!"

"What _orders_ have I given you?" Maggie asked, incredulous.

Mira counted off on her fingers, "First, 'Get the shipment,'" she said, "then, 'come tell me you have it,' then 'go home and come back after I've got where I'm going,' then 'stay put while I go get bitch-slapped by my boyfriend's dad,' and then 'go the hell home.' How's that?" Her gaze was sullen, and angry.

Maggie shook her head, stunned almost to speechlessness, and stammered as she answered. "Those - those weren't _orders_, for god's sake. We fucking _decided_, together, as a team to get the weapons, and the rest of it - well what the hell else were we supposed to do?"

Mira scowled. "We didn't _decide_ that you should go see that prick Steward by yourself," she answered, "and we didn't _decide_ that Janet and me and the guys should go home and wait for you or that 'captain' of yours to tell us it was safe to come back!" She shook her head, her eyes fixed on Maggie. "When did you join his fucking army anyway, that you should do what he says? You take an oath or something? 'Cause I sure didn't."

Maggie laughed, and said, "It's a _war_, Mira! it's not a goddamned City Council meeting or a back-alley conference with some corrupt or corruptible official! And he didn't _tell_ me to send you home, I did it 'cause I didn't know what the hell else to do!"

"And you didn't fucking ask either, did you?" Mira retorted. "And _yes_ it's war, so what's the deal with not bringing the guns anyway? What the hell did we get them for?"

Shaking her head, Maggie replied, "I thought Greg wanted to get that shit anyway, and what do you care whether we use it there or here? Where is this _coming_ from?"

Mira ignored the question. "So we risk our asses to grab a fucking massive haul of firepower for this war you're so freaked about, this war your new shag-pal is probably _dying_ in right now, and we're not even going to use it to help them? What the hell is that about?"

Maggie paled. "First," she said, her voice low and tight, "he's not a shag-pal." Mira cocked an eyebrow. "Second," Maggie went on, "he's not dying, goddamn it."

"No? How would you know, sitting on your ass here?"

"And third," Maggie finished, "if he'd fucking wanted us there, he'd have fucking said to come, it's not like he didn't know we could." Her knuckles were white where she clenched her fists, her fingernails biting into her palms. "Now you can do what you damned well please, but Boromir -"

Mira rolled her eyes. "'Boromir,' you say his name like he's fucking God, like you used to say Steven's. Christ, Maggie, you've got the worst taste in men, what makes you think this guy's any different?"

Maggie's voice shook when she answered. "This is not a road you want to go down, Mira."

"No, you're right," she said, standing up. "Where I want to go is home, where I don't have to watch you roll over for some fucking guy." She turned on her heel then and left the room, and Maggie sat down at the table again, shaking. After a moment, Maggie heard her speaking to Janet, and then Janet's quiet footstep.

"Maggie," she said, "um, Mira - she wants - I'm going to send her back to Chip's. But I think I'll stay here, if that's all right."

Startled, Maggie turned. "Uh - yeah, that's fine," she said. "That's great actually."

"Okay, cool," she said, and slipped back out again.

Shortly, Maggie heard Janet come back, and the young wizard set a pocket-pack of tissues on the table in front of Maggie, then sat trembling across from her. Startled, Maggie laughed. "Damn, where'd you get these?"

Janet smiled shakily. "I always carry at least one. I brought a couple spares last night."

"You rule," said Maggie gratefully, opening the pack and taking out a tissue. "S'cuse me," she said, then blew her nose.

"You're totally excused," said Janet. "You know," she continued hesitantly, "Mira really didn't mean most of what she said."

"No?" Maggie said doubtfully. "What makes you think so?"

"She's just tense, because of everything that's going on."

Maggie scowled. "Yeah, well I'm not exactly the poster-child for a good night's sleep, either."

"Yeah, but - " and Janet hesitated. "Well, she thinks you're going to stay here."

"What?" said Maggie, looking up. "Why would she think that?"

Janet ducked her head. "Well," she said, "it's - I mean, he really seems - you seem different, I guess. I think she's not used to you listening much to anyone but her and the guys." She paused. "You really seem to like him."

"Well I do, but...." Maggie paused. She hadn't given any thought to staying, but now, thinking about it, she realized she wasn't sure she didn't want to. But would he even want her there? Why should she think so? "Oh, hell," she murmured. "Listen," and she stood up, "I'm going to go take a nap, or try to. Are you okay? You wanna share the bed? You look a little rough."

Janet shook her head. "I'm cool. It's amazing how much easier it is to do one person at a time."

Maggie nodded, and started to leave, then hesitated. "Did, um," and she turned to Janet. "Did Mira tell you any time to come back and get her? or them?"

She shook her head. "No, I just told her I would when we knew better what was going on."

"Okay. Wake me when Meylari comes back, would you?" Janet nodded, and Maggie turned and headed for the small bedroom. She didn't think she'd sleep, but she wanted to try, or at least to close her eyes and not think about anything for a while.

When Meylari returned, she was grim-faced. Maggie, who'd slept only a short time, started water for tea while Meylari told them the news. "Yesterday," she said, "a host issued from Minas Morgul, a stronghold of the Enemy since Minas Ithil fell a thousand years ago." She met Maggie's gaze when Maggie turned to face her. "They rode to Osgiliath," she said softly, "joined by regiments of the Southrons - the Haradrim." And now she shook her head, and her eyes were shadowed. "The Black Captain of Minas Morgul leads them," she went on, "and he is a fell creature. Fear goes before him, and his armies, it is said, would fall upon their swords if he bid them do."

Maggie came and sat at the table then, across from Janet. "Is there any word on Faramir, or the men Boromir took?"

Meylari replied unflinchingly, "The Black Captain has taken the passage of Anduin, and our forces retreat to the Causeway Forts of Rammas Echor, the wall which guards the Pelennor," she said. "Boromir and Faramir both lived, I was told, and the wizard Gandalf has gone to their aid."

"Gandalf," Janet murmured, and Maggie suddenly remembered.

"Pippin," she said, "oh, no, he wouldn't have -" and she shook her head. "Of course not," she murmured, "I'm just worrying for the sake of it."

"The Halfling?" said Meylari. "Nay, he went not with the wizard, but is with Denethor, attending him."

Startled, Maggie turned to her. "How do you know?"

Meylari smiled slightly. "Benneth waits upon the Steward this day," she answered, "and Halflings are easily recognized, once one knows they exist this side of legend at all."

Frowning, Maggie said, "So, what, you just walk up and talk to Benneth while he's waiting on the Steward?"

Meylari shrugged. "I found him standing guard outside the Steward's chamber. He is used to my ways, and I dare say he was surprised that I had not come to him earlier." She smiled. "Had I been born a man," she said, "my cousins would not be the only Rangers in the family. But it would not take a Ranger's senses," she went on thoughtfully, "to know your third friend is not within these walls, nor that you two are troubled." She paused then, looking from Maggie to Janet and back.

"We, um," and Maggie hesitated. "Had a disagreement."

"She's not wandering around loose, though," said Janet. "She wanted to go home, so I sent her back."

"To your other world?" said Meylari. Janet nodded. "Is it wise, when you know you face a threat there as well?"

Janet shrugged. "They know the terrain," she said, "and they've got resources. They'll be all right." Maggie didn't comment, nibbling thoughtfully on the tip of her finger, frowning.

There was a pause, then Meylari said, "Well, come then, I shall start the evening meal, and you shall tell me about your world. What are the people like? If they are like the two of you," she said, standing, "it must be an interesting place indeed."

No more news came that night, nor did they hear anything to make them think the sons of Denethor might have returned, and Maggie slept little and spent the next day in an agony of waiting. Several times she opened her mouth to tell Janet to take her home, that she was going to get Mira and the guys and the guns, that Mira was right, and they were going to Osgiliath. Trick out the Land Rovers, get some grenade launchers and some machine guns and whatever the hell else they had, and to hell with what Boromir wanted and with what Saruman wanted and with this constant questioning over "right" and "wrong." Who even knew what was right or wrong here? Everything seemed both utterly right and unutterably wrong. But each time, she stopped herself, remembering how fiercely Boromir had insisted she not come to Osgiliath. She couldn't quite make herself go against his wishes, not yet. So she paced, and she got in Meylari's way in the kitchen, tripped three times over Janet's feet despite how carefully Janet tried to stay out of her way, and she paced some more, and spent eternities staring out the small, cloudy windows into the dark day. Finally, in the mid-afternoon, Meylari pressed a cup of wine on her, saying, "Please, drink this down, it will calm you. Then rest, if you can, and I shall see what news I can discover."

Maggie scowled and shook her head. "I don't want to calm down, I want to find out what's happening. I hate this _waiting_! Mira was right - waiting around doesn't fix anything."

"But it is what a soldier's wife does," said Meylari sharply, her grey eyes turned to steel, softened by the hand which reached out to press the other woman's cheek. "Or a soldier's cousin," she said, more gently, and placed the wine cup in Maggie's hand. "We wait, and we hope, and we pray to whatever gods there are that our men come home again. And we try not to drive one another to distraction while we wait."

Maggie's scowl faded to a frown. "I hate waiting," she said, but she drank the wine. It tasted of herbs, and when she felt a drowsy warmth steal over her she realized Meylari had doctored it, but she didn't mind. She knew she was making both the other women crazy, and besides, the whole point of the drug was clearly to make her stop worrying about things, including about having been drugged. She made her way to the small bedroom, crawled into the bed fully clothed, and pulled the covers over her head, remaining awake only long enough to feel the sudden gentle pressure of Snowpad as she leapt onto the foot of the bed and curled up at her feet.

She woke to a thin sliver of light opening in the darkness, and in the other room she could hear voices. She turned in bed and looked to see the unmistakable silhouette of Boromir limned in the glow from the lamp outside her room, and she leaned up on her elbow. "Boromir?" she said softly, her voice disbelieving.

"Here, love," he replied, coming forward to sit on the edge of the bed.

She reached out to touch him, the leather bracers that shielded his forearms cool beneath her fingertips, and then she sat up and threw her arms around him, holding tight. "Oh," she whispered, "I thought I was dreaming, but leather never feels like that in dreams," and she kissed his hair, his cheek. "Faramir?"

"Taken to the Houses of Healing," he said, returning her embrace, then pressing away to look at her. Her eyes hadn't yet adjusted and she could barely see him in the dark, but she had tasted blood where she'd kissed him, and she put her hand to his face. He winced when she touched the wound.

"You should be too," she said. "How badly are you hurt?"

"'T'is nothing," he said, "a scratch I got from carelessness." But when she ran her hands over his shoulders and his arms, testing, he gave a short hiss of pain and trapped her hands in his. "And perhaps a bruise or two," he admitted reluctantly, "but Faramir is gravely injured. We would surely have perished if not for my uncle and the swan-knights of Dol Amroth, who rode to our aid outside the City Gate, and Mithrandir who seems these days to be fair fashioned of light," and she caught humor, and something akin to awe in his voice. "I begin to understand why my brother reveres him so."

"Does your father know you're back, and both alive?"

"Aye," he said, nodding. "And it seems he has forgiven me for my..." he hesitated, "outburst before departing for Osgiliath, or at least he met us at the door to the Houses of Healing and did not order my arrest on the spot."

"Well," said Maggie, "that's encouraging."

"Indeed," he said, "though I believe I have yet to forgive myself." His voice was low, and unsettled, and Maggie considered asking him to talk about it, but decided against it. Now didn't seem to be the time to debate the merits, or lack thereof, of drawing a pistol on one's father.

"Who's here?" She nodded to the doorway, through which soft voices came.

"Haerendil," he said. "And his brother."

Maggie closed her eyes, relief at news she hadn't known she waited for washing over her. "Oh," she said in a sigh, "that's good."

"Still, the retreat was hard," he said. "We lost many men, and barely kept the rearguard enough together to prevent a rout." He shook his head. "The Rammas is broken, Maggie. The Enemy holds the Pelennor, the Gate is shut. The Rohirrim cannot come now, even if they would. And Faramir...." She waited for him to continue, and finally he shook his head and said, "My brother lies wounded, and he will not wake. I fear for him."

"You should be with him," she said. "Really. You should go to him."

Boromir nodded, then looked at her. "I wished to be sure you had not felt too misused by the somewhat forceful leave I took of you...."

"Ah," she said, and smiled, looking at their entwined fingers. "No," she said, "not _too_ misused. But can I come see Faramir with you?"

"Denethor will be there," Boromir replied, "and though my lieutenant Beran tells me that the Guard no longer seeks for you, I do not think I trust my father not to release upon you all the anger he must surely bear towards me. 'Tis better if you wait."

She scowled. "I hate waiting," she said. "I'm not much good at it."

He chuckled. "I understand," he said.

"Do you?" She looked at him sharply. "Do you know how hard it was for me not to go back home, get weapons, and come after you? Mira and I fought about it, and it was me - _me_ - saying we couldn't. It confused the hell out of Mira, and when I think about it, I don't blame her. It's not like me to sit on my ass while someone I care about goes skipping off into danger."

"We hardly skipped," he replied dryly.

"Well, whatever," she said. "Meylari said waiting is what a soldier's wife does, but I'm nobody's wife and I'm really sick of sitting around. Come on - haven't I proven yet that I'm not some shy flower who has to be protected at every turn? It's not like I didn't survive Helm's Deep."

"I would not have you go through another Helm's Deep," he answered.

"Well, it's not up to you," she said. "I stayed here before because your Ranger friend choked me out, and I didn't go after you when I woke up because... because... well, I don't know why, but I'm done being the one who sits around waiting."

"Disobedience, again?" he said, and she could see his faint smile in the dim light. "You are a troublesome woman."

"So punish me," she said, "but not by locking me up where I can't do anyone any good."

"You do me good by surviving," he replied.

"Bullshit." He looked at her, startled. "I do you good by being who I am," she said firmly. "Which is, yes, among other things, a survivor, but also a fighter."

"A soldier?"

"Not if that means following your orders when you tell me to stay put."

"And if all soldiers did exactly as they pleased?" he asked, and she could hear irritation creeping into his voice. "We are at war, Maggie, and an army is not run by ten thousand men each choosing his own path."

She pulled her hands from his and pressed one to the back of her neck, rubbing it. "Okay, but I'm not ten thousand men. I'm not in your army. I'm a free agent. And - and how did we get on this subject anyway? What was the point of this conversation?"

"That you are not to come with me to see Faramir," he said.

"Oh, right," she muttered. "And about how you understand my not liking to wait. Except you don't have to do it."

"I wait now," he answered sharply. "I wait for the Enemy to bring siege engines and destroy my city, and I wait for my brother to wake, and for my father to regain his senses. I wait for the King. I wait to surrender my people to a man of whose existence I knew not until a scant five months ago. Five waxings of the moon since I learned that all I have ever known will change with the coming of one who has not come, may never come. And without whose aid now, all my city and my world will come to ruin. Oh, I do wait, my lady," he said. "I do wait."

She looked at him, then reached out and took his hand. "Boromir," she said softly. "Do you know I love you?"

He hesitated. "I had hoped so."

"I do." She touched his chest. "I want to do what you want me to do," she said, "but I don't want that to change who I am. I don't want to become some shy, pampered thing, who sits on a cushion and sews a fine seam, as my mother put it."

He pressed his hands to her shoulders. "Then do not," he said. "But neither take rash, needless chances. And to come with me to Faramir and risk my father's anger is needless, and rash." He sighed. "Perhaps I did wrong to insist you not accompany me to Osgiliath, or perhaps I did not, but in this, I _am_ right." He pulled her into his embrace, kissing her hair, and she slipped her arms around him and held him. "I should have you return to your own world and stay there," he said at last, softly. "I should not have you here with me when we face such a threat as now waits on the Pelennor."

"Just try sending me home," she whispered. "Just try it."

Boromir pressed her tightly to him for a quick moment, then pressed back and looked at her. "There is no choice," he said. "You have an errand to undertake." 


	11. To Bring One More Soldier Home Alive

I don't own any part of LOTR and I'm certainly making no money from this, but I'm more grateful to Mr. Tolkien than I can say for creating such a rich world that so many people want to engage with it themselves. [See previous chapters for other disclaimers.] 

Still relying on The Complete Guide To Middle Earth, by Robert Foster (recommended by Christopher Tolkien in his preface to Unfinished Tales of Middle Earth), and The Atlas Of Middle Earth, revised edition, by Karen Wynn Fonstad.

**An End To Innocence**

**Chapter Eleven: To Bring One More Soldier Home Alive**

She met his gaze cautiously. "An errand. The weapons - you want them after all."

"We must use every advantage," he replied. "The Enemy's forces are almost at our walls, and we have nothing which can discourage them."

Maggie felt her heart start to beat faster, harder. "We - I thought we'd decided not to." Images of home, memories of Janet's face when she'd told them how Saruman had laughed. "We decided."

"No, we did not," he said softly. "We acknowledged the danger that may lie in the future. Will you come with me now, and see what danger is at the Gate this night?"

She frowned. "Seriously?"

"Get your cloak," he said. "You would not wish to be a shy flower, kept in a hothouse, protected from the world," and he kissed her palm. "Nor would I have you be. So you must understand what we face before we discuss whether a mad wizard's laughter is reason enough to dismiss arms which might be our salvation."

Maggie hesitated only a moment, then quickly pulled on her boots - she'd gone to bed fully clothed, and had never wakened to undress - then took her cloak from where it lay on the chair and followed him out of the bedroom. Haerendil, Meylari, Janet, and a Ranger Maggie thought must be Haerendil's brother sat by the fire. The men looked haggard, and Meylari and Janet were seeing to their injuries, a bowl of steaming water between them. Maggie smelled herbs, jasmine and new grass.

"Captain," said Haerendil, looking up."Have you need of us?"

"Nay," and Boromir shook his head. "I take the lady to see the Pelennor. She must understand the threat." Haerendil hesitated, as if he would speak, but then nodded, and Janet watched Maggie wordlessly.

Outside, a chestnut mare waited. Boromor swung wearily into the saddle, then held a hand to Maggie and helped her mount. When she'd settled herself, he turned the mare's head towards the Great Gate of Minas Tirith and urged her forward. They rode in silence for a while before Maggie spoke. "You said Faramir doesn't wake," her voice soft in the still night air. "How badly is he injured?"

"He seems whole enough, at first glance," Boromir replied. "He was struck by a Southron arrow, though the wound is not severe. But the darkness of those cursed Black Riders," he went on quietly, shaking his head. "I saw them first at Osgiliath, before I left Gondor." His voice was low, and bitter. "They have power to turn men's courage to foul despair, and their influence..." but he didn't finish. Then finally he said, "After our defeat at East Osgiliath I saw a man sicken, fall into nightmares, and die, from no more cause that we could find than being too long in that foul creature's shadow." Maggie thought of the beasts that had flown over the City the day that Faramir had returned, and she closed her eyes against remembered fear.

Finally they reached the First Circle of Minas Tirith, and the Gate. Soldiers were on the walls, more in the street, and Boromir halted his mount near a staircase that led to the battlements. He waited for Maggie to dismount, then preceded her up the stairs and stood beside her while she turned her gaze out over the Pelennor. For a moment, all the despair she'd felt at Helm's Deep came rushing back, and her breath stopped in her throat.

Fires burned on the field. The grass they'd ridden across only days before now writhed with lines of soldiers digging trenches, the closest barely three hundred yards away. She could hear their voices, harsh, their accents gutteral and cruel, and their laughter pierced her heart. "My god," she whispered. "So close.... How can they be so close?" and she looked to Boromir, fear in her eyes.

"They entrench just beyond bowshot," he said. "See, if you can," and he pointed into the gloom, "do you see where they bring siege engines? With those, they can fire what they will. They cannot mar the walls, 'tis true," and she heard a dark humor twist his voice, "but they can fire within them, if they bring them close enough. And we can do nothing to stop them. They shall bring towers, as well, I wager, and if they can reach the top of the wall, the fighting will go hard." He paused, then sighed. "They need not attack at all, though," he went on finally, "but merely wait. No help can reach us, and to feed a city with what we have within the walls now would be an impossible task. We might die tomorrow on the blades of their swords, or we might die months from now, weakened from the hunger that comes on a city besieged, and cut off." She stood beside him, watching the armies on the Pelennor, watching the fires burn, and the sickly glow of those fires on black armor and steel. "But I do not think they will wait," he said at last, and he sounded to Maggie as tired as she'd ever heard him. "They could starve us out, but they are eager for blood. I do not think they will wait. Do you see?" he said then, turning to her. "Do you see why the laughter of Saruman is less a deterrant to this action than the foe that awaits us is a lure?"

She didn't answer at first. Finally, raising her eyes to his, she said, "You told me once that I didn't know the things your soldiers face, or the risks you'd take to give your men an advantage. That you'd risk anything to bring one more soldier home alive, and the enemy defeated." She turned and faced the Pelennor again, but her thoughts were scattered, some with the soldiers behind the walls of Minas Tirith, some with their families, some with Aragorn's army which now, she supposed, had no hope of reaching them in time. She thought of Meylari, and her easy friendship, and the tender way she'd touched the cloth to Haerendil's battered form, cleaning the blood and dirt from his wounds. "Well," she said, "I may not know, but I'm getting a glimmer. If they get in here...." She paused, shivering from the icy finger of fear that trailed down her spine. "To hell with Saruman," she said finally. "If we can, we'll put the genie back in the bottle when it's all done, but if we fail here, and everything ends, then who'll be left to care what might have happened if we'd used the things? For that matter," she said bitterly, "even if we didn't fail, what would the families of the men who died have to say to us if they knew we might have saved them and didn't, just because one day, a thousand years from now, something might have been corrupted because of the weapons we were afraid to use?" She turned away from the field, and the sight of the enemy. "Take me back to Meylari's house. There's already no time to train your soldiers - I have to get home and see if I can talk Chip into sending a few more men than he originally offered."

At daybreak, Maggie and Janet returned with Chip, and with twenty of the forty-three men and women who followed him. "I'm sorry it couldn't be more," he said, "but we just can't spare everyone."

"It's probably just as well," said Maggie softly, glancing at Janet. "And I'm more grateful than I can tell you that you're willing to come at all." With that, she left Chip to organize his people and went to Janet, whose slender form was trembling with the strain of the work she did, though it seemed effortless otherwise.

Into the small list field that lay beside the stables, one after another Janet called the trucks with their cargo of weapons and ammunition to her, and finally, clutching the talisman tightly, her skin pale and glistening, she brought Maggie's teammates, and Michael. She sagged against Maggie then, who quickly slipped her arm under the other woman's shoulders and brought her gently to the ground. Meylari, who had come with her cousins, hurried to where the two women sat and pressed a hand to Janet's face and throat, then turned to Maggie.

"I cannot tell if she is hurt, or merely exhausted," she said. "She should go to the healers." She nodded to Haerendil, who quickly came and lifted Janet unprotesting into his arms. "I shall stay with her and send word when she wakes."

Maggie watched after them as they left, worried, and then felt a light touch on her back. She turned to see Mira. "Hey girl," Mira said. "You ready to get this show on the road?"

Maggie nodded, then reached out to take Mira's hand, uncertain. "Thank you for coming back," she said hesitantly.

Mira shrugged. "It's all good," she answered, with the smallest smile.

Maggie chuckled and shook her head. "Actually," she said, "it all sucks, but it sucks a lot more when you and I are fighting. I'm really, really sorry. I've been a jerk."

"You've just," and she paused. "You've been doing the best you can with some really freakishly strange circumstances," she said finally. "We both have. It's good, though - we're good," and she leaned forward and pressed her lips to Maggie's cheek.

"Well," said Chip, coming up beside them, "there went our ride," and he nodded ruefully in Janet's direction. "We're well and truly stuck now. So where's this army we're going to fight? We might as well get started."

Maggie nodded, then looked across the field to where Imrahil was talking with one of Chip's people, who was showing him a carbine with a mounted grenade launcher. "Prince Imrahil," she called, still not sure how to address him, but he looked up and came forward to where she stood with Chip and Mira.

"Amazing weapons," he said as he approached. "Like the small ones you carry, but so much moreso."

"Each weapon has advantages and disadvanges," said Chip, turning to Imrahil. "Chip Evans, at your service," he said, holding out his hand.

"Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth," he replied, gripping Chip's proffered hand. "You come to us in our time of need," he said, "and at great risk to yourself, to fight a foe which is not your own. Our thanks can never be enough."

"Oh," Chip said, and shrugged, "get us good and drunk after the fighting's over, and we'll call it square," and he winked and grinned.

Imrahil grinned back and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "We shall drink to our new comradeship 'till none can stand but the serving maids!"

Maggie turned to Mira. "You can manage without me for now, can't you?" she asked. "Y'all are the tacticians anyway."

"Go on," said Mira. "We can handle things here - go see your guy."

"My lord," Maggie said to Imrahil then, "I'm going to see if I can find your nephews - Boromir said he'd be with Faramir in the Houses of Healing this morning. Shall I send him to you if I can find him?"

Imrahil nodded. "Aye, we shall need the Captain as soon as he may come, but do not press him too hard. The day is not yet old, and he may be spared for a while yet."

As she turned to go, she heard Chip say, "Should I be calling you 'my lord'?" and she smiled to herself as Imrahil laughed.

"You may call me what you will, my friend," Imrahil replied, "for your world is not ours, and we do not stand on ceremony with one who risks so much to aid us."

The Houses of Healing were busy with people when she entered. Women and men hurried past her, and everywhere it seemed hallways lined with doors opened on more hallways lined with more doors, and she saw quickly that she'd never find anyone she knew just by looking around. Finally she touched the sleeve of a woman, who stopped and turned to her. "Yes, lady?" the woman said, impatient but not surly.

"I was looking for the Steward's son," said Maggie.

"I could ask which one," the woman replied, "but they are both together, so 'tis of no matter. Come, I shall bring you to them - these sheets are headed down that corridor in any event." She strode off and Maggie followed, pleasantly surprised that no one had asked 'are you family?' Shortly they came to a turn, and then another, and then the woman paused, and nodded towards a closed door. "The younger lies senseless in there, and the elder keeps watch over him, though I dare say he's needed elsewhere." Maggie felt a flash of irritation at the woman's tone, but it subsided quickly. 'She's as scared as everyone else,' she thought, 'and she gets to see the results of the war, up close and personal. No wonder she's testy.' By then her guide's footsteps were echoing away down the hall, and Maggie turned to the door she'd indicated. Stepping close, she hesitated, then knocked twice.

On the other side, a low voice said, "Come," and she eased the door open and peeked in.

Boromir sat by the bed in a high-backed chair, his feet tucked under it, leaning over his brother. Faramir was pale, covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and on a low table was a silver pitcher with a water glass, half full, and a bowl into which Boromir dipped a cloth, which he wrung out and then pressed to Faramir's face and throat. Maggie stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. "How is he?" she asked softly, and Boromir looked up.

"Maggie," he said, relief in his voice, and he stood and crossed the room to embrace her. "He is much the same," he replied. "He cries out sometimes in his daze, sometimes for me, sometimes for another comrade. Once for our mother, though more as if he spoke to her than asked for her." He turned then, and she followed as he went back and sat heavily in the chair he'd vacated. She moved to the other side of the bed and stood facing the brothers. "How went your errand?" Boromir asked, his gaze still on Faramir.

"It went well," she said. "We got everything we went for. Chip brought twenty of his people, and Michael came with my team, so we're up to twenty-seven now who can use the weapons effectively. I think the grenade launchers will play merry hell with those catapults."

He nodded absently, then looked up at her. "Grenade launchers?"

"You remember," she said. "I told you about grenades at Isengard. The things that blow things up. Grenade launchers launch the things that blow things up."

"Ah, yes," and he closed his eyes briefly. "I am sorry," he said, "my mind has been much with my brother."

"Well, y'know," she said, "it's understandable."

"Thank you," he murmured, then gave a little sigh. "Understandable, perhaps," he said, pressing the cloth to Faramir's face again, "but unacceptable as well. There are those here who will see to him if I but let them; who will see to my duties if I forsake them to play nursemaid?"

Maggie reached out a gentle finger to smooth aside a lock of hair from Faramir's face, marvelling again at the likeness between the brothers. "Nothing's going on yet, really," she said. "Mira and your uncle and the guys are getting the weapons down to the First Circle, and setting things up. You can be spared for a little while. Imrahil said so." She hesitated, then said, "Have you talked to your father today?"

"Yes," he replied wearily, "Denethor came to ask after his youngest son."

Maggie waited for him to continue, but he didn't. "How'd that go?" she said finally.

He cocked his head slightly. "As well as might be expected, given that the Steward is yet unwell himself."

"So, I'm guessing he's not always like this?" she asked. "I mean, the things he said in his chamber, when - I mean, before you clocked him and left - he's not usually so harsh?"

"Not usually," he replied. "Not usually quite so harsh. Though rarely tender, and more rarely yet with Faramir, for all my brother deserves his father's tenderness, and regard." Faramir shifted slightly then, and Boromir caught his breath, taking his brother's hand in his own. But Faramir didn't wake, and Boromir sighed, absently stroking the hand he held. "No, Denethor has always been hard with his youngest, but never - " and he stopped then, and after a moment's pause, went on, "never has he spoken to me of him as he did that night. Never, at least, before I left for Imladris, and this wretched errand that took me so long from here. What he has been like with Faramir during the months I have been gone, I cannot tell, and Faramir did not enlighten me before he was sent away."

"So," Maggie said hesitantly, "when you say it went as well as might be expected, how well do you mean?"

He smiled then, a wry smile, and glanced out the window. "I mean that our father came to ask me why I sat with my dreaming brother when there were men with their wits about them who needed my presence. But," he went on, "he also did not suggest that we should - " and he hesitated again, and Maggie realized he didn't want to speak so in front of Faramir, regardless of whether the man was conscious. He turned his gaze to her then, and she nodded, understanding. After a moment, Boromir motioned towards the door. "Fetch someone to watch over Faramir," he said. "It is past time I saw to my duty, which Faramir would not love me for forsaking, even to sit by his bed."

Before midday, all was as ready as Chip, Mira, and Michael thought it could be made. Twelve machine gun turrets were set up on the wall, six to each side of the Gate. Between the turrets there were six M4 carbines with mounted grenade launchers supporting and supported by them, and a seventh covered the Gate itself. Five men armed with machine guns were free to move along the wall, and three rifles, of whom Maggie was one, were also free to move where they were needed. Imrahil and Boromir stood together, watching the quick and efficient movements of Chip's team, and of Mira and Maggie's other teammates, who'd been woven into the procedings more easily than Maggie had thought they might. "They are truly soldiers," said Imrahil as Maggie approached, "for all their clothing and weapons are strange."

"Yeah," she said, and grinned, giving a little hitch to the rifle slung on her shoulder. "We thought it'd be best to bring soldiers, instead of, say, politicians."

"I meant no offense, lady," Imrahil replied quickly, "only to remark upon their discipline."

"Oh, I know," she said, reaching out to touch his arm. "I wasn't offended. It just struck me funny."

Imrahil smiled then, and said, "And indeed, you made the right choice, for we have far too many politicians in Gondor as it is."

"At least one too many in the City at the moment, for my liking," Boromir said, glancing at his uncle, and he wasn't smiling. "Have you spoken to the Steward today?" he asked.

Imrahil nodded. "Yes, and he is in an ill temper."

The younger man smiled wryly. "An ill temper. Yes. A temper too ill for the Lord of the City; I preferred him cold, to this angry unrest. Would that he were sick abed beside my brother, that I might not worry for what he will yet do." He hesitated, then finished quietly, "I should not have told him of the heir."

Imrahil answered Boromir's smile with his own. "What's done is done," he said, "and surely no ill will come of that for a time. But pray do not wish him beside your brother, for surely they would not both live out the night, trapped together in the same room."

Boromir laughed softly. "Ah, Uncle, forgive me. I should not speak so of the Steward, for he is your brother-in-law, and my father, and more, the lord of us both."

"And as he is my brother-in-law, and your father," said Imrahil, draping an arm over his nephew's shoulder, "we might allow ourselves to speak of the man as the man, not only as the Lord Steward." He paused, then added, "At least between ourselves."

Maggie turned quickly to watch the troop movements with intense interest. "And one other," Boromir said, and reached behind Imrahil to nudge her.

"Hmm?" She looked up. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't hear a word either of you just said," and she smiled brightly. "Shall we climb up and see what the Enemy makes of our little installations?"

"After you, lady," said Boromir, and extended his hand towards the stairs. She mounted them, followed by the Prince and the Captain, and looked out over the protecting wall at the Pelennor. The armies below seemed to have taken no notice of the activities on the wall of the City, and Boromir smiled. "It appears they remark them not," he said.

"All to the good," Imrahil replied.

"What _could_ they make of it?" asked Maggie. "I don't suppose they've seen any weapons that look much like these, nor people either. If you didn't know them, you might not think they looked too threatening. Otherwise I wonder if they'd have already tried to pick a couple of our shooters off."

"Armor," said Boromir suddenly. "I would see that your soldiers are armored before too much longer, for safety's sake, in case the attack comes sooner than expected."

Maggie nodded, and said, "Let me just check on something first." Slipping past them, she hurried along the wall to where she saw Chip speaking with one of the women on his team. He turned to her as she approached. "Hate to interrupt," she said, "but I just wondered how y'all are doing for body armor."

"We're good," he said, nodding. "It's not new, but it works. We got it from JT's over on East Fourth Street."

"Yeah?" she said, raising an eyebrow. "He's not cheap."

Chip grinned. "He owed me. I saved his drunk ass from some Black Handers one night when he got a little too rowdy, and he wound up totalling my Camero with me in the back by way of a thank-you. I took it out of his stock instead of his hide."

Maggie laughed. "Man, you rock, you really do. I wish you were on my team."

"I am today," he said, and winked. "Listen, meet Tina." He turned to the woman he'd been speaking with. "Tina, this is Maggie, Michael's friend."

Tina smiled, and held out her hand. "Any friend of Mike's," she said.

Maggie took her hand, returning the smile. "Likewise."

"Tina's my best shot," Chip said. "She'll be working the wall with you and Gus. Have you met Gus?"

Maggie shook her head.

"He's over there," and she looked where Chip pointed. "The guy in the hat."

Far down the wall, past the Gate, she saw a tall man in a cowboy hat, carrying rifle like the Colt she had slung over her shoulder. She grinned. "That's Gus?" she said. "Christ, I see him all the time at the Halfway Point."

Chip laughed. "Oh, great," he said. "Well listen, whatever he's done, just don't shoot him until after the fighting's over!"

"Aw, he's a honey," said Maggie, chuckling. "He always stops if I threaten to break both his arms." With a quick clap on Chip's shoulder and a "nice to meet you" to Tina, she turned then and trotted back to where Boromir and Imrahil still stood.

"What have you learned?" asked Imrahil.

"They're fine," she said. "They brought their own."

Boromir sighed. "That is a blessing, for we have little extra, and in unusual sizes."

Chuckling, Maggie remarked, "Isn't that always the way of it? Just when you need a thing, they've only got 'em in someone else's size, and next season's fashions are already turning up. It's cool though," she went on, ignoring their pained looks, "they're good. And y'all are clear on what everyone's doing, right?"

They nodded, and Imrahil said, "I will be eager to see the effect of these 'grenades' on the enemy's catapults."

"I don't think they'll destroy them totally," said Maggie, "at least not without using more ammo than we want to. But I think we can disable them with a few well-placed rounds. Same for the siege towers. They move on wheels, right?"

"Aye," said Boromir.

"Well, we'll just cut the wheels out from under them."

Maggie stood on the wall beside Michael, who carried one of the carbines. Together they watched as the Enemy drew catapults closer to the wall, though not yet quite so close as to be reached by their weapons. She felt her nerves tingling in anticipation, and she checked her rifle again, and sighted through the scope. The fierce face of an Orc came into the crosshairs, but she didn't fire. It was too early. Beside her, Michael adjusted the earpiece of the headset he wore, then said, "Check." He turned to Maggie. "We're going to wait until all of them are in range before we start taking them out," he said. "We start too soon, and Chip figures they just won't bring the rest close enough. He can't gauge how far those things can fling something, so we'll risk a few shots from them if it means getting all of them out of commission instead of just most of them."

"Cool," she said. "Thanks."

"I hate we only have seventeen of these damned radios," he said.

"It's cool," she answered. "Your people know the drill well enough anyway. And mine," and she chuckled, "mine don't take orders too well to begin with, though I'm glad to have y'all relaying them."

"It feels good to be working with the team again," he said. "And with y'all too, but... Y'know, when you say, 'your people,' it feels right. I've missed them."

She bumped him gently with her shoulder. "I know what you mean," she said. "When I first got here, before Mira and the guys found me, I felt like I was missing both my arms."

He nodded. "I used to hate depending on other people," he said thoughtfully. "When I was a kid, y'know. Thought I could rule the world, or at least the block," and they both smiled. "I don't remember when it stopped sucking to depend on other people, and when it started feeling like the easiest, best thing in the world."

She held the rifle in one hand and draped the other across his shoulder. "It was when you found people you _could_ depend on," she said. She reclaimed her arm then, and raised the rifle once more. "Come on," she murmured. "They not close enough yet?"

"Patience," said Michael. "Wait for it."

The catapults drew closer, foot by foot, through the trampled, ruined field. Each one had Orc archers flanking it, and creatures Maggie didn't recognize - and didn't want to - pulling, pushing, heaving them forward.

"Ready," he said suddenly, and she sighted on the archers. There was a pause. "Fire."

And it began. From six spots on the wall of the City, grenadiers opened fire on the catapults, the heavy thump of the grenade launchers soft against the sharp crack of the guns that defended them. On the field, the archers were in a panic, their fellows falling to missiles they could not see, and where the grenades struck, the explosions threw the attackers to the ground, wounded or dead, and one after another the catapults began to list and collapse. "There," said Maggie. One of the catapults, not yet too disabled for use, was being loaded, its arm drawn back. Sighting, Maggie fired and dropped an archer who was returning fire, and then Michael's gun thudded and she saw the grenade arc towards the sling of the catapult. It exploded, tearing the arm apart, raining fire and burning wood on the Orcs who surrounded it. "Grenade didn't do all that," Maggie muttered.

"They're using explosives," he said, to both Maggie and the small microphone of his headset, "or something flammable. If they've loaded, hit the sling." He fired another round, missing the sling of the next weapon but tearing through a small cadre of Orcs who had rushed to prop it up where one of the wheels had been torn off. "Load 'em up, babies," he murmured, "just makes it easier."

It took the defenders barely a quarter hour to decimate the catapults which had been drawn forward, and the attackers retreated outside the range of the missiles. Bodies littered the field, and Maggie could see that some of those bodies still lived, if barely. Shrapnel and explosions had done bloody work, and here she saw an Orc with an arm torn off, staggering back towards the line of retreat and falling; there, one knelt shrieking on the ground, bloodied hands to his face, and she didn't want to see what would be revealed if he looked at her. Then he was struck by an arrow from one of his fellows, and he jerked and fell, and didn't move.

"How are we?" she asked.

There was a pause. "Garret was hit in the arm by an arrow," he said, "but they're getting him patched up. Hank in the shoulder, it's not so good. They're taking him to - what's that?" he said into the microphone. "The houses of healing? Long name for a hospital," and he shook his head.

"Shorter than North New Washington General," Maggie said with a wry smile. "They'll take good care of him there."

"We didn't lose anyone, though, and the bastards didn't get a single shot off," he said, turning to Maggie and giving her a smile and a quick thumbs-up. "Go us."

She smiled back, but before she could say anything, a soul-killing screech ripped the air, and Maggie's heart fled. Beside her, the blood drained from Michael's face, and Maggie looked up. High above, bringing despair and nightmare, the Black Riders came.

*******

Extra special thanks to the Research Triangle Science Fiction Society (www.rtsfs.org), for the members' swift and helpful responses to my questions regarding medieval and modern warfare. Any failures in this story regarding any aspect of warfare, tactics, or weapons may be ascribed to a failure on my part, or to artistic license, not to this wonderful group of people. And thanks also to the lovely people at Henneth-Annun.net for their excellent feedback and encouragement, as well as to all the reviewers here. Your comments are greatly appreciated, always. 


	12. Darkness Falls

I don't own any part of LOTR and I'm certainly making no money from this, but I'm more grateful to Mr. Tolkien than I can say for creating such a rich world that so many people want to engage with it themselves. [See previous chapters for other disclaimers.] 

**An End To Innocence**

**Chapter Twelve: Darkness Falls**

Note: Previously the story was rated "Adult" largely for violence and language. Now it's rated "Adult" for violence, language, and sex (non-slash). Be warned. 

*******

Horrified, Maggie watched the approach of the winged beasts. From high in the eastern sky they came, first in a ragged formation, then breaking away in spirals to ride the unwelcoming wind down towards the besieged city and the Pelennor. Her heart froze as one of them turned towards the point where she and Michael crouched on the wall of the First Circle, and she watched, mesmerized, as it drew near. Finally, with a cry, she tore her eyes away from its black form and buried her head in her arms, feeling the air give way at its touch as it passed overhead, circled back, and passed over again on its way to join its brethren over the armies on the fields. Half blind with unnameable grief, she reached desperately towards Michael, who cowered beside her, and at her touch he jerked away, then grabbed her arm and pulled her close. 

For long moments, the two of them huddled there, holding each other tightly. His scent was so like his brother's that he seemed almost as familiar to her as Greg himself, and with her eyes closed she buried her face in the curve of his neck, clinging to that fragrance as though to a board in a turbulent sea, her lungs gasping for air. She felt Michael's breathing too, labored and uneven, and somewhere in the shadow that had passed over her came the realization that he would hyperventilate - they both would, if they didn't control it. "Michael," she gasped, "slow it down, just breathe," as much to herself as to him, "concentrate on that. In on four, out on four," and forcing her mind to stillness, she breathed in, slowly, breathed out, slowly, and slowly he came to match her breath. "Good," she whispered, "that's it, just like training, nice, and deep, and steady." Her heartbeat began to slow then as well, and she could feel Michael's muscles begin to relax beneath her hands, though they both still trembled.

Above and away they heard the screech of the Black Riders, around them the cries of men who gave in to the fear, and of those who looked to their weapons. From further down the wall came the crack of a rifle, then another, and she eased her head up and looked to see Gus standing on the highest level of the wall, rifle raised to his shoulder and sighted towards the sky. He would make an easy target for the enemy below. "Shit," she muttered, and Michael followed her gaze.

"Gus," he murmured, and raising her rifle Maggie turned back to the Pelennor as Michael knelt forward. "Gus!" he barked, "get down!"

Eyes flickering over the field, Maggie looked for any who would rise and draw on the rifleman, but saw none. It seemed the enemy's forces were as terrorized by the Riders as they were, at least for now. She didn't want to count on them staying that way.

"Gus!" Michael shouted again, "Down! Get your ass over here!"

"I'm guessing he's one of the ones without the radio?" Maggie said shakily. 

"He never needs it," said Michael. "He's a fuckin' rock - never out of place, always where you need him, even if you didn't tell him. Chip says he'll be squad leader as soon as a spot opens up - if he lives that long." A few seconds later, Maggie heard footsteps and turned to see the tall man approach, now keeping below the lip of the battlements.

"What the hell did you think you were doing, standing up there like that?" Michael said angrily.

"Sorry, Mike," said Gus. "I kinda lost it for a minute - but what the fuck _are_ those things?"

"Black Riders," said Maggie, facing him. "I don't know what they are, but they're evil fucks and they scare the piss out of everyone they meet."

"Ya' can't fuckin' shoot 'em down!" he said, his voice sharp. "I swear to god I - wait a minute," and his gaze narrowed on Maggie. "I know you! Hey!" and his scowl turned to a smile, then to confusion. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Michael took a breath, still pale. "Gus, meet Maggie," he said. "Maggie, Gus."

Gus grinned, if only briefly. "Hey, the lady we're here to help out!" he said. "If I'd known it was you, I'd'a worn my better hat! So what do you mean 'black riders are evil'? Should I be offended?"

Maggie forced a laugh that would have been genuine if she hadn't still been trying to gather the wits that the Rider had stolen from her. "Naw, babe, you know you're sweet like coffee, and twice as hot," she said with as much of a smile as she could muster. "These things are - hell, I don't know what they are."

"Man, they're freakazoids, that's what they fuckin' are." Gus looked up, then out over the fields where the riders circled. He sighted and aimed, tracking one of the riders, and fired, three times in quick succession. The reports echoed off the walls, but the Rider didn't falter. "I fuckin' hit him, I know I did," he muttered. "At least two of those shots hit home, and he's still sittin' up."

"Try that thing he's riding, that dragon thing or whatever it is."

Both Maggie and Gus then turned and brought their rifles to their shoulders. Maggie sighted through the scope, the rider's mount coming into the crosshairs, and tracking its flight she squeezed off two shots, saw the beast jerk, heard its scream, but its flight seemed unaffected. She fired again, struck again, and again, the beast didn't fall. It did, however, turn towards the City. "Aw, shit," she muttered, sudden terror leaping back to her throat at having gotten the dread thing's attention.

"Come to daddy, baby," said Gus, rising halfway from his knees and still sighting on the Rider's beast. Maggie felt her fear growing as it drew nearer, and she fought the urge to drop her weapon and run. Beside her, Michael rose to a half-crouch and brought his weapon to bear on the beast as well, and Maggie turned her eyes and her rifle to the field, scanning it for any threat to the men beside her. None came, and then the report of the rifle to her right, and Michael's carbine to her left, and the screech of the winged mount as it jerked, then turned and wheeled higher into the sky and off to the east, out of range.

"What does it take to kill those things?" Michael asked. "We both fuckin' hit it - what the hell?"

"They're damned big," said Gus, lowering his weapon and dropping back to a low crouch. "Maybe that's it."

Michael shook his head, kneeling again and lowering the carbine. "Maybe so, or - I don't know. Maybe they can't be - "

"Don't say it, man," said Gus, holding up a hand. "Everything that lives can be killed. Depend on it."

"Fine," said Maggie bitterly, "but I'm not getting close enough to get another fuckin' shot off." Angry at herself for being unable to master her fear, she started removing the body armor Chip had given her, which had become unbearable in the suffocating stillness of the day, thinking only of getting away from the wall, just for a while.

"Hey, girl," said Gus, his hand suddenly on her shoulder. "It's all right - you're all right. They're just big bats."

She raised her eyes to his and knew her face betrayed her shock and anger. "'Bats'? Didn't you _feel_ that?"

He turned his gaze away. "Yeah, I felt something all right. Why else do you think I popped my fool head up over the wall?" He hesitated, then turned back to her. "But it's just fear, baby," he said quietly. "You can get used to fear. And at least this fear is something I can take a shot at." His gaze was steady, and his eyes were hard. She wondered that she hadn't seen this in him the many times they'd met, wondered that she'd never thought about what he had to face. She remembered him telling her once, he was half African-American, half Iranian, and that wherever he went, either the police stopped him for being black, or the DHS stopped him for being Middle Eastern. He'd told her about a week he'd spent in jail once, for having been caught without his citizenship card on him. _"And there's nothing you can do,"_ he'd said. _"Just gotta say 'yes sir' and 'no sir' and be sure you talk like they do, and hope whatever lawyer they give you knows his ass from a hole in the ground and doesn't hate people who look like you. Keep your back to the wall when you're in there, and pray to God you get out."_

"Besides," he went on now, a smile ghosting about his lips, "Who's gonna look out for these bastards if I don't keep it together?"

"You?" Michael said, raising his eyebrows and failing to suppress a teasing grin, though he was still pale. "Jumping up there like a recruit to take potshots at overgrown bats? _You're_ going to look out for us?"

Maggie smiled as the two men began a litany of one-upmanship about the times they'd saved their squad from one doom or another. Searching for spare ammunition in the pockets of the vest she'd removed, she slipped some into the pouch she wore on her belt, then reshouldered the rifle and planted a kiss on first Michael's cheek, then Gus'. "I'm going to go have a look around," she said. "Y'all keep the enemy outside 'till I get back."

"And after," said Michael, swatting her on the rump as she passed him.

She made her way through the streets of the City, trying to fight off a black depression that had come on her after she'd left her comrades. It was as though every hurt she'd ever felt, every betrayal, every slight, had come back to fill the void where their conversation had been, and she spared a glance backwards to see the two men, side by side, gazing out through arrow slits at the Pelennor. She briefly considered going back to them, but couldn't bring herself to return. She felt that if she went back, they would put up with her, but she couldn't quite believe in their friendship, even though she knew she had it. It didn't make sense, but there it was. She thought of Mira, and Greg, Jack, Paul, thought of going to find them. Thought of finding Janet, even, in the Houses of Healing, but she couldn't convince herself to do it, felt only fear at the thought of facing them, and she walked on, aimlessly following the street upwards, wrapped in a fog of grief without a cause she could find except the Riders. And knowing what the cause was didn't help.

The street wound through the City, and each time one of the Riders passed overhead she had to stop and shrink back against the wall, ashamed, but unable to help herself. It was slow going. As she turned finally to go through the Fifth Gate she had to dance backwards to avoid running into Imrahil, who put out his hands to steady her. "Lady," he said, "How fare you? I saw the quick work your soldiers made of those catapults."

She tried to smile. "Yeah, they did great. Enemy didn't get a shot off."

"They are powerful weapons," he said, "and your people wield them with skill."

"Thank you," she replied.

"Whither go you?" he asked, then ducked his head to look into her lowered eyes. "And so downcast?"

She felt tears start to come and bit the inside of her cheek hard, to stop them. "It's nothing."

"The Riders," said Imrahil softly, "they bring despair, I know." He paused, then continued, "I go now to find the wizard, and review the troops. The wizard's presence is a balm, and we would try to lift their spirits. Would you come?"

Her smile was almost imperceptible. "I don't think I could lift anyone's spirits," she said, "and I'd probably undo all your good work. I'm going to go change clothes, I think, and maybe try to sleep before things start up again. I've not slept much."

"'Tis a well-conceived plan," he said. "I think the Enemy will not attack for some hours yet, perhaps not 'till middle night."

Suddenly remembering Denethor, she glanced up at Imrahil and said, "I'm not going to be arrested if I go up to the Citadel, do you think?"

Imrahil shook his head. "The Lord Steward watched the battle from above, if battle it can be called. You have won his grudging respect, and I do not think he will harm you, at least for the moment." His gaze darkened. "My lady," he said, and she heard hesitation in his voice, and met his eyes. "You - you have arrived in so grim an hour," he went on, "and it grieves me. You must think the Steward cruel indeed, and Gondor in the hands of a madman."

Maggie didn't know how to respond, unwilling to agree, but unable to lie to him, so she said nothing.

He understood her silence, and smiled softly. "My sister's husband was not always so," he said. "He has been, perhaps, distant," and he shook his head once, "from his youngest most of all. But he has not been cruel, no moreso than any father might be who raised two sons without the gentling influence of his lady."

"So what happened?" asked Maggie.

Imrahil turned his gaze upwards to the White Tower. "I know not," he said. "Only rumor."

She almost asked him if it was about a seeing stone, remembering the fears Boromir had expressed to his brother, and the anger in his voice when he'd confronted Denethor, but stopped herself, unsure whether Boromir would want his uncle to know.

Imrahil turned back to her. "Denethor has been always a good man, and a good Steward. Perhaps a ... difficult father, but this madness that has come on him," and Imrahil paused, and put a hand briefly to his eyes. Finally he looked at her. "I hope you will one day know the Steward who has ruled Gondor for these thirty-five years past, and with a stern hand but a fair one."

"I hope so too," she said, wishing somehow to ease whatever pain Imrahil clearly felt, but with no idea how to do it. After a moment she said, "Why do you tell me this?"

He smiled slightly then, and said, "You are fond of Boromir. Denethor is his father. Is that not reason enough? Go now," he said, his hand on her shoulder, "rest. I must find Gandalf before he despairs of my coming and sees to the troops without me."

Finally she reached the Sixth Gate, and as she came through it she saw Boromir leaving the Houses of Healing. She called out to him, and he turned, and came towards her. "How's Faramir?" she asked when he was close.

"Unchanged," he said, "which, I remind myself, means also that he is no worse." He kissed her cheek, and her heart sank. "I would that Aragorn would come," he said. "He has a healer's touch, as I learned to my relief when he cleaned the poison from my wound at Amon Hen," and Maggie thought there was the smallest smile when he said that, a trace of his better humor. "My brother needs his hand," he said, taking her arm, and together they walked towards the arched tunnel that led to the Citadel. "Where do you go?" he asked.

"I wanted to get cleaned up, change clothes, maybe nap," she said as they passed into the torchlit tunnel. "Imrahil doesn't think the fighting'll start for a while yet, and I'm just really tired." She wanted to hold him, wanted him to take her in his arms, kiss her properly. She wanted to ask him to come with her, make love to her while there was time, but she paled at the thought he might refuse, might have realized how insane their affair was, or have grown tired of her already. So instead, she said, "What about you?"

"My father has summoned me," he said. "I know not why."

She nodded as they stepped out into the dim haze of the afternoon, feeling as though there were a mile of cold air between them, despite that he touched her. "Well, good luck with that," she said, knowing she sounded indifferent but unable to do otherwise without fear of breaking down into tears.

He turned to her then, frowning, and opened his mouth to speak, but Denethor's voice reached them before he could.

"My son, and his valiant lady," said Denethor as he approached, and Maggie couldn't tell whether she heard sarcasm in his voice or not, and without thinking she took a step back. "The weapons you brought are great indeed," he went on. "Never have I seen such destruction accomplished so swiftly."

"And with no losses," said Boromir. "Two of my lady's companions were wounded, but we lost no soldiers, and the Enemy had not the chance to fire even one of those engines against us."

Denethor nodded, gazing at them both thoughtfully, and Maggie saw his eyes flicker over the weapons she carried - Desire and Despair at her hips, and the rifle slung over her shoulder. "Come," he said suddenly. "I would have words with you both."

Boromir hesitated. "The lady is weary, my lord," he said. "She has slept little in two days, and I would -"

"_I_ would have her come with us now, Captain," said Denethor, his gaze darkening. "There will be time enough for rest later."

Boromir inclined his head, and Maggie followed the two men towards the Tower of Ecthelion. The air was cool when they entered the shadowy throne room, the lanterns lit against the darkness of the day. Maggie felt that if the sun didn't break through soon, the depression that the Riders brought would be redundant. Behind them, the door swung closed, and the room fell into even deeper shadow.

Statues lined the edges of the chamber, leading to a low staircase. On the bottom step was the Steward's chair, and at the top, the throne of Gondor gleamed in the glow from the lanterns. Denethor walked towards the steps, but Boromir and Maggie held back, the Steward's footsteps echoing in the stillness. After a time, he turned to face them. "My son has told me the King returns," he said. "The King," and his tone was thoughtful. "Yet this king is no more than a Ranger, raised by the Elves, tarrying in northern lands while his people fight the darkness that threatens from the east." His eyes were bright, and he stood beside the Steward's chair, one hand resting on the carven back. "I would have locked you in the darkest dungeon of Minas Tirith for your treason against me, Boromir," he said, his voice soft and full of menace, "but for this king you say comes."

Boromir frowned. "I misunderstand you, my lord," he said.

"You misunderstand me," Denethor repeated, stepping forward with an almost feline grace to approach his son. Maggie shuddered involuntarily. "You misunderstand me?" he said again. "This," and he spread his arms wide to the room. "This is your birthright, my son. This is _yours_. Accept it. Take it."

Boromir shook his head. "My lord, the Stewards but hold Gondor in trust, until the King returns. I need not tell you this, who have been in all ways the - "

"Do not think to flatter me out of a mood, Boromir," Denethor said sharply. "I know this king of whom you speak - I knew him in my youth, when he served my father, though he called himself then Thorongil. Yet he spoke nothing of kingship. This is the man to whom you would give Gondor? One who will not stay with her, nor return in her time of need until she is too weakened to resist him if she would?"

Boromir started. "My lord, I - would not dispute you, but Aragorn is a man of only middle years. This cannot be so."

"It is so," said Denethor. "The palantír shows many things, not all meant for my eyes, and yet I see. Nine days ago, in the palantír, I saw the man I knew as Thorongil struggle with the might of Sauron, and though sore pressed, he did not falter. Who could this be but the man you would call King?"

Boromir shook his head, frowning. "But Aragorn has no palantír, my lord! You could not see him through a crystal he does not posses - you are mistaken."

Denethor turned on him then and said sharply, "I am your lord and your father, Boromir! I am _not_ a fool to be deluded by visions in a glass! In this I am not mistaken. Thorongil would steal our lands from us," and his voice became an angry snarl, "would steal your heritage! I will _not_ allow it, and I will not trade words with you over it! The palantír of Orthanc is in the hands of one who would come only now, when we are at our weakest point, and would take our people from us - this cannot be allowed!"

Boromir's eyes widened at the mention of the black tower of Isengard. "Orthanc," he murmured, and Maggie felt him falter. "Oh, it cannot be. It cannot be."

Maggie frowned. "I don't understand," she said. "What - I don't understand."

Denethor smiled then, and in a graceful step he was in front of her, his hand flickering out to caress her face. His icy grey eyes, so like Boromir's, yet so cold, caught hers and she froze, feeling his gaze as the gaze of a predator. In a flash of memory she recalled a day not so very long ago, at home, when she'd gone with Stephen to see a small traveling circus that had passed through New Washington. She'd left him watching a magician, had left to walk around the circus, just to lose her thoughts in the warm summer air, and had come unawares upon a cage with a tiger in it. The beast had turned its head at the sound of her approach, and when she raised her eyes it had been gazing into them, and all the hair on the back of her neck had stood up as she saw herself prey in its steady regard. She gazed into those eyes again now.

"My child," said Denethor gently, but with a blade beneath, "of course you do not understand. How could you?" 

"Orthanc," Boromir said softly, turning to her. "That is the tower of Isengard. The palantír dwelt there, with Saruman. Aragorn - Aragorn could have come to posses it."

Shaking her head, Maggie said, "But still - if Thorongil served under your grandfather, he'd have to be -" and she turned to Denethor then, "he'd have to be your age, sir, at least," she said. "I don't see how Aragorn could be Thorongil."

"The blood of Númenor is all but undimmed in him," said Denethor. "It grants him a life longer than that of other men. Too long, some might say," and his tone was as dark as the shadows of the lamplit room.

Boromir turned then, walked unsteadily to the base of one of the statues and leaned against it. "So he was here," he murmured. "In Gondor, so long ago, and he never...." He didn't finish, but turned and gazed unseeing into the middle distance. 

"Yes, Boromir," said Denethor, his tone becoming eager. "You see now why this cannot be allowed? What king would come to his country, serve her in secret and then depart, only to return at her darkest hour when she cannot but surrender to him?"

Boromir shook his head. "I cannot accept this," he said. "I must speak with Aragorn before I can know what path to choose."

"You would _speak_ with him?" Denethor spat. "Speak with this traitor who has abandoned whatever claim he _might_ have had to the throne by his long years of hiding?"

"Yes!" Boromir shouted, rounding on his father. "Yes, I would _speak_ with him! Is that so much to ask, my lord? to speak with the man whose throne you would have me take?"

"By rights the throne is _yours_," said Denethor, his voice harsh.

"Not yours, my lord?" Boromir asked softly. "Why should not the Steward take the throne, if any but the rightful king would do so?"

Denethor shook his head, scowling. "Because I would cast off this burden," he said, "and pass it to you, who are my strength. My jewel. My strong right hand."

"I do not wish it," Boromir answered firmly, his eyes dark, his mouth a grim line. 

Smiling, Denethor said, "Do you not, my son? Do you not...? You, who have spent your life learning to govern our people? who have spent your life, and your blood, and the blood of your men, protecting and serving Gondor?" He crossed to where Boromir stood, and slid his hand around the back of his son's neck, pulling him close. "I know what is in your heart, my jewel," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but it carried through the still air like the toll of a bell. "I know you, my son, my love, and I know you do want this, as much as ever I have."

A moment passed, and another, and Maggie felt stranded, unable to move or speak. Finally, Boromir pulled sharply from his father's grasp and in long strides reached the Steward's chair, gripped it as a drowning man grips a spar. "This is all I have wanted," he said harshly. "The Steward's chair, and to be the Steward that my father has been."

"You are a fool," said Denethor with a growl. "Here in your very bed lies the means both to deliver you the throne, and to make Gondor the mightiest of powers, and you would refuse it!" At Boromir's startled look Denethor sighed. "Have I been wrong, for so many years? Should I have nurtured Faramir? for surely he would have had the wisdom, if not the courage, to use these weapons!"

"We do use them, my lord," said Boromir, his confusion evident in his voice.

"Aye, to fight an enemy which slavers at the gates!" Denethor replied, his voice almost a shout. "But by all the Gods, surely you see that there are dangers apart from _that_! Dangers which can be defeated, quickly, and with ease, by these astonishing weapons your bedmate brings us!" He turned to Maggie. "And you," he said, and she took a step back. "You would wish to be the whore of a Steward? Or would you be the lady of the King? You have used these weapons in your own world and here, and you know for yourself the advantage they will give an army or a single man. You, surely, see the wisdom of defending our lands against a usurper?"

She blinked, and opened her mouth, but found no words.

"I am surrounded by weaklings!" Denethor snarled. "A son who stands witless while a usurper would steal his throne, and his harlot, who cannot even speak when asked a simple question!"

Maggie started to answer, but Boromir was suddenly between them and she resisted the urge to place her hands on him, to feel his strong body, borrow some of that strength if she could. She wanted him between her and his father. "You will not speak this way to her again," Boromir said, his voice low and hard, his eyes narrowed.

"Ah-ho," Denethor said with a quick smile. "So there is at least _something_ you will defend. Perhaps if I put your woman between Gondor and your king, you would defend her then?" The gleam in Denethor's eyes was unsettling, and before Boromir could make an answer Denethor had reached out with quick hand to snatch at Maggie's arm and pull her to him. Startled, she was unresisting, knowing that from where she was, she could easily escape his grip, but there was an icy pit in her stomach, and she knew he could feel her trembling. He trailed a finger down her cheek, and she saw Boromir's eyes narrow further. "Perhaps," said Denethor, "I should consider the love you have for this woman, and offer you a trade - her life, for the death of your would-be king." 

"Hey!" said Maggie, suddenly angry, and she wrenched herself out of his grasp and leapt back just as Boromir reached for her. Denethor lashed out then, and the sound as he struck his son's face echoed through the cavernous chamber.

Boromir reeled, caught off his guard by the unexpected attack, but his father struck him again, a heavy backhanded blow, and Boromir staggered and fell to his knees. Denethor stood over his stricken son and reached down to tangle his fist in the dark hair, forcing Boromir's head back at a hard angle, facing him. "I warned you once," said Denethor, his voice all menace and steel, "and you defied me. But know this. You will take the throne, or I will see your bitch and your brother dead, and you and your 'king' imprisoned for treason. Consider it." And with that, the Steward turned and strode out of the chamber.

Maggie's gaze was fixed on Boromir, who knelt unmoving where he'd fallen. She could see the angry redness where his father's hand had struck, could see two cuts where rings had laid open his skin. She stepped forward and dropped to her knees beside him, unshouldered the rifle and placed it on the floor, then reached up to touch the wound, to see how bad it was, but he pushed her away. She waited, shaking, unsure whether to flee or to stay. Boromir remained motionless, and she could see lamplight glittering on tears that had begun to track down his cheeks. His eyes were wide.

Finally, he sat back, and in a low voice, said, "He will do it." He lowered his head to his hands. "I do not know my father," he said. "This is not the man who raised me, this is not the man whose love Faramir strives so hard to win." He turned haunted eyes to Maggie. "He has the power," he said. "He will do it. He will kill you, he will kill Faramir, and he will plunge our lands into civil war. I cannot - I cannot let him. I must - " but he stopped then, and she heard him choke back a sob. 

"Boromir," she said, "what if you - could you talk to - "

He turned to her and she flinched away from the sudden anger in his eyes. "Talk? To whom?" his words clipped and hard. "I would speak with my brother, but he lies senseless in the Houses of Healing, and I fear only the king's touch can wake him. To my uncle?" He gave a short bark of derision. "I would bring him to ruin with me, whichever folly I chose. And Aragorn," he said, his voice bitter. He rose suddenly and strode across the room, then up the steps to stand at the foot of the empty throne, and she followed, uncertain, only as far as the first stair. "Aragorn? or Thorongil?" he said sharply, but with almost a cry beneath his tone. "_Why_ did he forsake us? Why did he abandon his people?" He spun to face her. "How can I give over the rule of Gondor to one who cares so little for her? and how can I _not_ give over the throne to the rightful king? Yet if I surrender it, Denethor will kill you, he will kill his own youngest son, he will have Aragorn arrested, and one war against enemies from without will be joined by a second civil war, which is ill-afforded even in the best of times."

Still uncertain, she went to him, up the shallow steps, and this time when she reached up to touch his face, he let her. Tenderly she probed the cuts, and he didn't flinch. "They're not deep," she said, turning her eyes to his, and she caught her breath suddenly at the storm she saw there. Tears still wet his cheeks, but his eyes - his eyes were his father's. Before she realized he'd moved, his hand was on her wrist and she froze, caught again in the gaze of a tiger. She held her breath as he brought his other hand up, his fingers tracing the line of her lips, stroking over her throat, fluttering along her collarbone beneath the shirt she wore, her skin sparking where he touched her. "Would you be the whore of a Steward," he whispered, "or would you be the Queen?" His hand slipped around her throat, his thumb caressing her skin.

"I'd be whatever you'd have me be," she said, trembling at his touch, "as long as you'd have me."

He smiled then, a predatory smile, and brought his mouth softly to hers. She met him, opened her lips to receive him, her wrist still held in the vise of his hand. His teeth caught at her mouth, and he pulled her arm behind her, trapping the other there as well so he held her fast with one hand. His other hand he brought to her face, his gaze flickering over her skin, following where his fingers touched. He gripped her jaw then, and turned her face from his, and with lips and teeth and tongue he played along her throat, nipped her ear, wringing soft moans from her. She felt her breath in her lungs, felt her blood pounding in her veins, her heart high, and she wondered at the change in him, wondered whether this was his passion for her, or his anger at his father, and whether she cared. Her body arched towards him. 

How often had he held her like this? His passions met hers completely, and were the mirror of hers. As she longed for his strength, he yearned for her surrender, and she had given it to him eagerly. First, on the road from Isengard, and since then each night that they had shared passion. Sometimes tender, sometimes playful, sometimes rough and strident, but always, always with this: his power, her surrender. She craved it as she craved to be held in his arms, craved to feel his strength possessing her. She had years since stopped caring why she needed this, stopped worrying that maybe there was something wrong with it, with her. She was strong, she knew it. She took care of herself. Maybe that was why - maybe it was nothing more than wishing to be taken care of. Wishing not to make the decisions, not to always have to use the strength she cultivated and prized. Not to have to win. 

Strength, and vulnerability; power, and surrender. And always she'd had to give up one, until Boromir. Always she had given up surrender, because always she'd found lovers who wanted only that, or only the other. She knew which one she couldn't live without.

Until Boromir, who wanted both. She could still hear his voice..._ so strong in battle, so quick to command...so soft and yielding in affection._ She'd known in that moment, when those words had slipped like the breath of life from his lips.

He moved his hand from her jaw to her hair, pulled her forward and turned her so that she was pressed hard against the arm of the throne. It dug into her and she made a sound, but he only smiled. "Oh, I think you shall be my whore," he said gently, "for you shall do as I please, when I please, and I shall reward you for it." She felt a shiver, and ached for his touch, but he let go of her then, and said, "Place your hands on the arm of the throne, and do not move."

She obeyed. When he spoke to her in that tone, with that gaze, she obeyed. And she wondered how she had ever lived without this submission, this yielding, and she wondered if she started to see why he desired it so. She had never considered it before, had only accepted it as a gift she treasured, but now.... She remembered the look in his father's eyes. There had been cold brutality there, yes, but beneath it, strength, and a will of iron. The confidence that comes from long years commanding others, of power over others. And such power, she knew, would either fulfill the soul of the one who wielded it, and bring strength to all around him, or would eat at him until he was destroyed, and with him all that he loved. Or all that she loved.

She had worked, so hard, never to have that power, for she knew it would destroy her. She could use it, when she had to, but she rarely desired it. Her lover, though, wielded it with grace, and strength, and compassion. He was a man who was at his finest when he was in command. Any could tell who saw the way his men revered him, this was not Denethor in his madness, this was Boromir in his strength. And now, Boromir in his despair, caught between powers he could not contain, his own strength chained by their conflict. She felt her throat tighten with tears, wishing she could bear the pain for him that his father had inflicted, that Aragorn brought, and Faramir's illness, or that she could find a way to loose the bonds he'd been trapped in - Denethor, and Aragorn; father, and Steward, and king. How could they have done this to him, she wondered. Did they know what tiger they had caged? did they see the blood on the bars?

He stepped back, watching her, and she felt his eyes on her as he circled the seat of kings, felt his hand in her hair once more as he stepped in front of her again. He leaned forward and kissed her cheeks, then her lips, and then reached down to unfasten the lacing of her shirt. She trembled at his gaze - hard, and possessive, as if she were a particularly lovely mount he'd purchased at great price, and she thrilled at his touch. "Raise your arms," he said. She did, and he drew the shirt off over her head, baring her skin to the cool of the chamber.

"If someone should find us here," she said softly, her voice breaking.

"There are none to see," he replied. "No servants are here at this hour," and then he paused. "There is my father, I suppose," he said thoughtfully, and smiled that predatory smile. "But if he would have me claim the throne, surely he would not fault me for using it now for both our pleasure. Place your hands on the arm, sweet, or suffer my wrath," his voice soft, his gaze almost teasing, but only almost. Once again, she obeyed. He knelt down before her, and lifting each foot, one after the other he gently drew her boots off, then stood again, unbuckled her gun belt and removed it, placing it carefully on the fourth step down. With deft fingers he unfastened the laces of her breeches, his fingers slipping between the leather and her skin, making her shiver. 

She gripped the arm of the throne and glanced towards the door of the chamber. "Eyes on me," he said softly, and she faced him. "You will not concern yourself with who may enter this chamber," he said. "I have told you we will not be disturbed, and if you do not trust me on that score, you should hardly have trusted me this far with your body." With a few swift movements he stripped the breeches off, and she was bared before him, her skin prickling, feeling more vulnerable and exposed than she could recall ever feeling. "You are a beauty," he said then, his eyes traveling over her body. "My love, you are a beauty." His voice was tender, and he held her there with his eyes alone and stood before her, his armor gleaming dully in the lamplight, his sword at his side. He caught her face in his hand then and forced her to meet his gaze. "_Do_ you trust me?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, without hesitation. It was true, but she also knew that hesitation might mean disaster. She knew this mood, but she wasn't sure what was beneath it now. His father lost to madness, his brother to illness, his king to mistrust on both their sides - she couldn't have him wonder if she were abandoning him too. For without trust, what was there?

He reached into his cloak, and she heard the sound of a blade being drawn. She forced herself not to flinch as he raised the knife before her eyes, and lamplight flickered on the edge. "A gift from my brother," he said, turning it. "Lovely, is it not?"

It was. A single-bladed hunting knife, it was long, the back of it sharply curved, the hilt wrapped in black, and on the blade were etched leaves in the same pattern that graced the collar and cuffs of the shirt she'd worn. "Yes," she said, her voice a whisper. Her skin felt electric beneath his gaze, as he watched her past the blade of the knife. He'd pressed a knife to her once before, waking her by lazily tracing curves on her back in the twilight, their second evening of travel from Isengard, and she'd found the sensation pleasant. But this knife, gleaming in the lamplight, this was altogether different. This was not a gentle awakening, this was a measure of her will.

Carefully, gently, he drew the knife over her stomach, pressing with the dull back of the tip, but the chill of it on her flesh caused her to shiver, her skin shuddering involuntarily beneath its touch. Mesmerized by the beauty of the blade, she raised one hand, touched her fingertips lightly to the steel, following it as he traced the slow, delicate pattern. Her pale skin, the gleaming knife, his beloved hand holding it, and without thinking she slipped her fingers beneath it, brought it to her lips and kissed his hand, then turned the blade back towards him, watched as he let her guide the knife. She pressed the cool flat of the blade against his unmarked cheek, and felt him press into it, a smile on his lips, his eyes on her. She followed the blade with her mouth, tracing a path of kisses and steel, her fingers resting on his until she leaned back, ever so slightly, and bared her own throat, drawing the edge back to herself. A low sound rose in him, almost a purr, and he pressed gently, so gently. She could feel her heartbeat against the metal.

He leaned close, his breath in her ear, his blade poised over her pulse. "Your wizard lies sleeping and does not wake," he whispered, "and my father is lost to madness. He would kill you. He would kill his son. He would be a regicide, or make me one." She felt his lips on her then, soft lips followed by teeth, biting, nipping, and she drew a breath, her desire for him a crystalline blade of her own, cutting through everything else. His other hand slid over her hip, and he pulled her to him, the leather of his gear digging into her flesh. "He would take from me everything I love, including my honour. And here are you and I. Shall I take you, now, bent over the throne I can neither accept nor refuse?" he whispered, his breath warm. "What would you have me do?"

She gasped as he pressed against her, and she was caught between the throne and her lover as surely as he was caught between the Steward and the king. But if she told him to stand down, he would, she knew, so while she was caught, she was not truly trapped. Not as he was. "I would have you move Faramir to someplace safer than the Houses of Healing," she said at last, her voice scarcely above a whisper, "and then do what is best for Gondor."

He laughed, a soft sound, but she heard tears in it. "You know the right things to say," he replied, moving the knife gently over her skin. "Would that I knew the answer." His eyes followed the blade, and her eyes followed his until he returned his gaze to hers, to find her watching him. "Do I frighten you, my lady?" he asked, his voice thick.

She shook her head. "You would," she said. "You would terrify me if I didn't know what kind of man you are."

Smiling slightly, he answered, "What kind of man am I?"

She let go the throne then and pulled him to her, kissed him, long, softly, her velvet tongue and gentle teeth claiming him, though he held the knife to her throat. "A noble man," she whispered, "an honorable man. A _good_ man."

He stroked her hair back from her face. "Nothing has changed," he said quietly, and the tears that had threatened were now in his eyes, though his voice was steady. "My father is still mad, and murderous. Aragorn still comes with the Rohirrim," and he paused, moving the blade from her throat and sheathing it, "or so we hope, but what trap has the Steward laid? My brother still rests unconscious in the Houses of Healing, and your wizard as well. I cannot send you home. And the Enemy still waits outside the Gate, and tortures us from within."

"And I still love you," she said. "For whatever that's worth."

He kissed her cheek, and whispered, "You love a traitor, then, for there is naught I can do now that is not treason."

She caught his face in both her hands and forced him to look at her. "You _will_ find your way through this, Boromir. You will." He opened his mouth to speak but she drew him to her and kissed him before he could. "You are the strength of Gondor," she said when she released him. "You _have_ the strength of Gondor within you, the strength of this city's white stone, and the tenderness of her gardens." Struck by a thought, she said quickly, quietly, "Don't doubt yourself. Your father can't win if you don't surrender, and he can't break you if you - if you bend," and she hesitated, caught in his open gaze. "There's strength in not fighting, too," she said finally.

Their eyes met for a long moment, and she felt his nearness like an electrical storm, sparks chasing over her skin.

"You tremble," he whispered at last.

"For your touch, my love," she replied.

He stepped suddenly back and she caught herself against the throne, unbalanced by the disappearance of his weight, and quickly he'd unbuckled his swordbelt and dropped it, kicking it away. He reached for her then, tangled his fist in her hair and pulled her head back as he caught her to him, muffling her sudden cry with his kiss, claiming her, leaving her breathless. With a quick movement he toppled her over and brought them to the floor beside the throne, one hand cradling her head, the other reaching out to grip the nearest immobile thing - the leg of the throne that they lay beside. She wrapped her legs around him, heedless of the leather bruising her thighs, and with deft fingers he unlaced his breeches and she felt him press for entrance. She cried out as he buried himself in her and she met each thrust, pulling him close with one hand and flailing with the other for something to brace herself against his onslaught. She found his hand on the throne, and she gripped it, twining her fingers in his. 

Pressing hard kisses to his lips, his throat, she felt her sudden climax approaching and threw her head back, then buried her face in his neck, fastening her teeth on his skin as she lost herself utterly in his smell, his taste, the hardness of him pounding into her, filling her, his own breathing ragged as he tried to stifle his cries. Beyond word, beyond thought, she knew only him, until finally she spasmed around his cock, and with a powerful thrust she felt his answering climax within her and she cried out his name. She felt him stiffen, felt him jerk as he spilled his seed, and she clutched at him, pulling him into her as far as she could, whispering his name over and over, showering small, tender kisses on his skin. His weight was comforting, holding her in place, holding her earthbound, his cloak draped over their bodies like a blanket.

They lay like that for a long moment, breath coming heavy and hard, and she thought that if she tried to stand, she'd fall. She felt tears welling in her throat, but couldn't tell whether from love, or fear, or the darkness that waited, or simply the joy of having him in her. He had not unsheathed himself, and she kept her legs around his waist, pulling him close, one hand stroking his hair, the other on the throne, their fingers entwined. Finally, his breathing slowed, and he raised up on one arm and gazed at her. Tears shone in his eyes, the tracks from those shed earlier still visible on his face. An angry bruise already rose where his father had struck him. He kissed her softly. 

"Strength in yielding, my love?" he said, a faint smile on his lips. "You would have me yield to both these men? How can I?"

She shook her head. "Not yield _to_ them, love. But...," and she hesitated, not sure how to explain it. "If your father and Aragorn have something to fight, they will. If you simply stand, knowing your own strength, maybe there's nothing there for them to fight."

Suddenly there was small sound from within the chamber, and Maggie gasped. Boromir turned his face towards the door and pulled his cloak further around them, and a soft voice said, "Your pardon, Lord."

"What is it, Beran?" he asked. His lieutenant.

Beran hesitated, then said, "You are needed. The attack begins."

He made a noise, shook his head. "Await me outside," he said.

"Yes, lord." Soft footsteps, and the door opening, shutting.

"Damn," said Maggie, feeling a hot blush flood her cheeks.

"Beran is discreet," said Boromir. "I have all his loyalty, and he my faith. Come, we cannot linger, much as I would wish to."

They dressed quickly, buckling on their various weapons, and Boromir started for the door, then paused.

"You have not met my lieutenant," he said. "Would you wish for me to send him away, or would you face him as my mistress?"

She hesitated, startled. "Well," she said, "where I'm from, this kind of thing isn't really a big deal - though I can count on one hand the number of times I've been walked in on. What would you prefer?"

He shrugged. "I dislike secrecy," he said. "And Beran is a comrade. A friend, for all he answers to me."

"Do you think he'd be embarrassed?"

He smiled slightly. "I think he would not."

With a laugh, she crossed the room to join him. "So, he's caught you before, huh?"

"Nay, lady," he said with an mild expression. "Why, I was innocent as a lamb 'ere I met you."

"Well, I'll corrupt you," she said, and kissed his ear. He started forward then, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm, and he turned a questioning gaze on her. "Boromir," she said, suddenly serious. "You have to see to your men, I have to get to my people." She drew him suddenly into a fierce embrace, and he held her hard. "Stay alive," she whispered. "Okay?"

His eyes shining, but not now with tears, he put his hands on her face and kissed her softly, for a long moment. "I shall. We both shall, for from whom shall I learn strength in surrender, if not you?"


	13. The Hands Of A Healer

I don't own any part of LOTR and I'm certainly making no money from this, but I'm more grateful to Mr. Tolkien than I can say for creating such a rich world that so many people want to engage with it themselves. [See previous chapters for other disclaimers and notes.] 

**An End To Innocence**

**Chapter Thirteen: The Hands Of A Healer**

The stench of smoke and sulfur, the sickening smell of blood and meat and burned bodies, spiraled upwards on the columns of air that carried the Black Riders over the field and City. Maggie clutched her weapon, but the constant struggle to overcome despair was wearing her down. She didn't know where Boromir was, had seen Mira only once when the other woman had passed her on the street, helping a wounded Gondorian soldier towards the make-shift medical station that had been set up in a inn on the Third Circle. Chip's team was reduced almost by half, but they'd still managed to wreak havoc with the siege towers that the Enemy had tried to force to the wall. Not one still stood. Maggie felt the heat from the fires on her skin, and the faces of the defenders were like visages of demons in the night, primal and grim, limned in the orange glow that lit the field.

And through that glow dragged the massive battering ram. She'd heard the cry when it had first appeared, its black steel head the shape of a snarling wolf, and seeming to move in the dancing firelight. Drawn by armored beasts and flanked by warriors, it was followed by creatures so large that Maggie had suddenly felt the world was out of proportion. In confusion, she'd turned to the soldier beside her.

"What are those things?" she'd asked. "Those things behind the battering ram?"

"Mountain trolls," he had answered, shaking his head. "Mountain trolls to wield it," and his voice had been that of one who has abandoned hope, and now stands only because to die facing death seems no more a horror than to die fleeing it, and easier.

So now she watched. The grenades were spent, had been used up on the catapults and the siege towers, and in a vain attempt to destroy the wheels of the housing that carried the ram. No fire would catch on it, and the grenadiers hadn't been able to reach the wheels - the Enemy had understood their strategy, and had blocked them with the bodies of soldiers. For every cadre of Orcs and Men that was torn apart by explosions, more rushed forward to replace them, and so the desperate defenders had finally used the last of the missiles. Still it rolled on, now dripping gore, and Maggie knew that the Gate would not hold. Not against this.

Then, cutting through the darkness, she heard Boromir's voice. Frantically her eyes sought for him, and found him finally, and with him Gandalf, and Imrahil, Gandalf mounted on Shadowfax, the meara gleaming pale silver even in the ruddy light of the battle. Boromir and Imrahil dismounted their own steeds as one, climbed the steps to the battlements, their armor glittering, their swords drawn. "For Gondor!" they cried, "Now, for glory! For country and comrade, rise, and stand!" and where they walked, the soldiers seemed able to throw off the terror that had stricken them, turning again to the field and loosing volley after volley.

But still the great ram came forward, and Maggie could not take her eyes from her lover as he strode the battlements. In the black haze that shrouded her mind, even as her heart leapt as his strength, bringing his men back from despair with the power of his courage alone, all she could think was that she wanted him down, gone, away from here, someplace where he didn't stand shining in the glare from the flames, didn't make such a tempting target for the enemy.

The enemy. With a gasp, she tore her gaze loose from Boromir and rose to a half crouch, raised the rifle to her shoulder. Eyes flickering over the field, she pushed back the terror that had overwhelmed her and looked now for enemy missiles, for enemy archers, for all who would threaten the defenders - all who would threaten _him_. She fired, and they fell, and she felt it in her throat and in her gut when she struck, crushed velvet wrapping a gaping wound, filling her mouth with the bitter taste of absinthe and sweet poison, and she lost herself in killing.

And then, drums in the darkness, rolling like thunder. Over the bodies of the slain rode a gruesome figure, cloaked in black, astride a black steed with hooves washed in blood from the corpses it trampled. Fear and awe overcame her, freezing her, and Maggie felt her rifle drop to the stone battlements from numbed hands. The Rider raised a sword then, long, gleaming like ice, and on the walls, no bow sang, no rifle, and stillness covered all.

Twice the great ram struck. Twice the Gate held, and Maggie screamed aloud at the sound, the terrible tremble of the stone battlements. She cowered where she knelt, her head bowed between her arms, her hands clutching each other behind her neck, her eyes squeezed so tightly shut that red stars swam in her vision.

A third strike, and a crack of lightning, the wall shaken as if the very earth were torn asunder. In a terrible flash of light, the Gate was broken. Maggie could not move, could not unclench her hands, could not open her eyes, nor did she want to. She would rather die here, on the cold stone, than risk seeing the terror that was below. Her mind crawled in upon itself, crawled deep into the blackness that the Riders had opened, and she waited for death.

Long moments passed like years of torment as she knelt there, and she couldn't be sure whether she lived, whether she felt the stone beneath her or the press of her own hands. Voices seemed to carry to her on the air - Gandalf, his tone commanding, and another, the scrape of unclean claws on bone, and she shrank further into the darkness of her mind.

But then, far away, as unexpected as a green leaf in a pit of fire, a sound - a rooster crowing somewhere in the stricken City, heralding the dawn. And answering it, horns, challenging the Enemy and calling out to the defenders: finally, allies have come. Finally, finally, Rohan has come. With the sound of the horns, it seemed a great wind swept over the City, and on it were voices raised in terrible song, a terrible, joyful song of slaughter and of terror to the Enemy. 

The darkness lifted. Slowly, Maggie unclenched her hands, and brought them to her face. Slowly, slowly, she opened her eyes, her heart loosed from its black cell, her mind returning, reaching for the light that somehow, as if by the hand of God, finally came to the world again. She turned her gaze to the sky, and though it was heavy with coming rain, and the light of the rising sun barely a glimmer of hope, dawn approached. The darkness of Mordor was breaking.

On the horizon the grey sky grew as bright as silver, and the wind smelled of the sea. She held her hands up to touch the breeze, looking around her as though her eyes had opened for the first time. Turning her gaze to the field, she saw that the battle still raged, and as she looked, the sounds reached her, now that her ears could hear any sound but her own heartbeat and fear. She picked her rifle up again, remembering in a flash the rage that had come on her and the fierce joy she'd taken in killing the soldiers that threatened Minas Tirith. Her stomach turned, sickened, but she took a deep and sudden breath and shook her head. "Stop it," she muttered to herself, shutting her mind to it, then raised her head again and looked around to see if she could find any that she knew.

On the other side of the broken Gate, up on the battlements, Maggie caught sight of olive skin and dark hair, a slim, rounded figure holding an M60 machine gun. She smiled, and made her way down the steps to the street, carefully through the ruins of the Gate, and called up. "Mira!"

The other woman turned, and grinned, took the steps two at a time and threw her arm around Maggie's neck, hugged her tight with the hand that wasn't holding the weapon. "Not dead yet?" she asked with a laugh.

"Not yet," Maggie answered, smiling. "Who else, do we know?"

Mira's laughter faded, and she frowned, saying, "None killed, but Greg and Jack are both hurt, and just over half of Chip's people. They're in that hospital they set up on the - whatchacallit, the Third Circle."

"How bad?"

She shook her head. "Not sure. I think as soon as they can, they're going to move the worst of them up to the Houses of Healing. Some of them," and she met Maggie's gaze, her own puzzled, "it's like they just don't wake up. No head wounds, nothing that would put them in a coma or anything, just," and she paused, then shrugged. "They just don't wake up."

"Like Faramir," Maggie murmured. "It's the Black Riders, I think. They - there's some kind of... thing they do."

"You mean apart from the bone-numbing, mind-shattering terror and despair?" Mira asked archly.

Maggie chuckled. "Well, sort of along with that," she replied. "Boromir said he saw a man die of it once. Greg and Jack," she said softly, looking at her friend. "Do they...?"

Mira had paled, and she nodded. "Greg. He's out cold with nothing but a bad gash on his arm." She paused, then said, "It was weird. We bandaged it, and he should have been fine, but he just kept getting more tired, and... more weird. By the time I got him to the aid station, he hardly knew where we were. He kept talking about Lila."

"Shit." Maggie shook her head. Lila was Greg's girlfriend, or had been until she died in a firefight with the Black Hand. "We should go see him."

"There's still a war on, babe," said Mira, "and he's not - he wouldn't know if we did."

Suddenly there was a clatter of hooves, and the women turned to see the knights of Dol Amroth and what must have been all the men inside the walls who could still fight, riding towards the Gate, Imrahil and Boromir at the head of the column. Maggie and Mira stepped back, up the stairs, to watch them go by. Boromir shot her a quick glance as they passed, and with a quick jerk of his head indicated she should leave the wall, but she just smiled, and blew him a kiss, and then he was gone.

"Now there's a sight," said Mira. "Damn."

"Indeed. Almost makes me want to enlist," and she nudged Mira and grinned.

Mira laughed. "Though you already had, babydoll. Come on, what should we do? Go see Greg and Jack, or haul our useless carcasses out there and see if we can do some more damage to the enemy?"

Maggie chuckled and looked away. "I don't know, babe. I'm used to - urban warfare. Houses and streets and buildings." She paused, glancing towards the Pelennor as though she could see it through the wall. "It's so _open_ out there. I'm not sure how to take care of me or mine when there's nothing to hide behind."

"You did it at Helm's Deep," said Mira.

Maggie thought about it. "Yeah," she said finally, "but I was mounted. It - I - " and she hesitated again. "It seemed different."

Mira shrugged. "Well, it's a fair point," she said. "We're not much on the 'open field of battle' paradigm. How 'bout we find Chip, see what he says?"

"Yeah, okay," Maggie replied, her brow furrowed. "I'll tell you what - can you do that? I - I want to just sit a minute and kind of collect myself."

"Good enough. You can keep an eye on the - well, where the Gate used to be, and try to keep it so we _don't_ get the urban warfare thing going on in Minas Tirith."

Maggie had sat quietly on the wall as dawn broke and morning came, beside her a tall, rangy woman named Cassandra, who had come with Chip. She was a sharpshooter as well, though during the battle she'd acted as one of the grenadiers. She and Maggie had taken turns dozing in the cool, damp morning, and no one had approached the Gate, or what was left of it. It was mid-morning by the time had Mira had returned, and she, Chip, Michael, Paul, and five others had formed a squad and ventured onto the field. Two fire teams flanked Chip, one led by Michael, and the other by a heavily-scarred older man with a heavy Northern England accent. "They called him Tank," Mira had said, "but his real name is Winstead. And Maggie," she'd said in a whisper, "I swear, I think I'm in love, I don't care what his name is." And in a wedge they'd advanced southward. 

Maggie and Gus remained at the Gate with Cassandra, in case the enemy did try to gain entrance, and to provide covering fire for as long as the squad was in range. The battle was turning against Gondor, and Maggie watched as the squad made its way southeast through the chaos on the field. Gus spoke quietly into the headset he now wore, appraising Chip of what he could see from where they were on the battlements, and Maggie and Cassandra watched the field with alert eyes, picking off whatever enemies came into their sights, or threatened the squad.

The wind had picked up, bringing rain with it, and suddenly there was a great gust from the south, clearing away the clouds so the sun shone on the field, and on the wind Maggie heard voices raised in alarm. "South," she heard Gus say, and she and Cassandra looked where he pointed. Raising binoculars to her eyes, Maggie saw what had caused the cry.

"Ships," she said. "Black sails. I don't know what it means."

"Well, the horse people don't like it," said Gus. "Check it out. They're - hey, Chip," he said, "get your asses over there - the banner, the green one with the white horse on it. They've been cut off. Cut 'em back in again."

"Fuck," Maggie said softly, turning the glass to the hillock where Éomer had set the banner. "Damn it, he's - hey," and she hesitated, saw him raise his sword and seem to laugh, and she turned again to where the black sails came up the river. "Hey! Hey, that's - wait a minute. What?"

Gus and Cassandra looked as well, seeing the standard break on the foremost ship - a white tree, and seven stars, a crown above, blazing in the silvery sunlight as though wrought in fire. "What? Mags, what is it?" 

"Well, I'm not sure," she said, "but I don't think it's an enemy. The White Tree, that's for Gondor. I'm not clear about the stars or the crown, but I - yeah, it looks like the cavalry's coming."

"I thought the Rohan was the cavalry," said Gus.

"Well, okay," said Maggie, "the Navy then. The Navy's coming. Ashore."

It was some time later before Maggie again viewed the field not through the scope of her rifle. The squad's ammunition spent, they'd come back to the City and reconnoitered at the foot of the battlements, where Maggie, Gus, and Cassandra joined them. All had returned safely, though not unscathed. Mira bore a cut on the side of her head where she'd been struck a glancing blow by a Southron arrow, and the body armor, while it had saved several of them from being skewered, hadn't saved them from the impact - Paul and Chip both breathed painfully, and Maggie knew that bruises would be flowering beneath the vests, and hoped nothing had been broken. Tank limped from a bolt that had struck his heavily-muscled thigh, and Maggie was pleased to see that Mira had taken the opportunity to get her arm around him. He leaned on her with the air of one who isn't sure whether to be annoyed that he needs the help, or pleased at the attention.

"So we're out of ammo, and not really in fighting trim," said Chip, wincing, "but hey, we're all here. Which is pretty good, considering the odds."

"But y'all need to get patched up," said Maggie. "And when was the last time anyone slept? or ate?" She looked at them sternly, and no one answered. "Come on now," she said. "I know it's been since before I came to get you - and that was, what, like, seven in the morning your time, yesterday? And now it's mid-afternoon. Come on - let's get y'all some medical attention, and then someplace to crash for a while."

Maggie left them at the aid station on the Third Circle, fully intending to return to her apartments in the Citadel, but when she came to the Sixth Circle and the Houses of Healing, she remembered that she had teammates there, as well as Janet, and Faramir. She hesitated. "I'll just go in for a minute," she murmured finally. "Just to see." But once she stepped inside, she realized no one was going to have time to help her find her friends - everywhere was movement, men and women hurrying to and fro, and Maggie could hear the sounds of people in pain coming from down the long, busy hallways. She started to leave, then thought of Faramir, and knew that at least she could find his room, see if he'd somehow regained consciousness. 

She found the hallway the woman had taken her down, found the turn, and came then to the door to Faramir's room. It was standing slightly open, and she pushed against it gently, and peeked inside. No one was there. Only Faramir, his eyes still closed, his breathing light and shallow. Maggie slipped into the room and set the door only slightly ajar behind her, as it had been, then moved to sit in the chair Boromir had occupied when she'd found him here before. The silver bowl and pitcher were still beside the table, but filled with fresh water, and the air in the room was still. Everything seemed far away, everything except the man who lay before her. "Faramir," she murmured. "Where have you gone?"

She touched his forehead, and the skin was hot. Taking one of the clean clothes that lay folded beside the bowl, she wet it, and wrung it out between her hands, then placed it across his forehead. Repeating the process, she set the second damp cloth on his throat. She didn't know if that was the right thing to do or not, but she remembered once having a fever that lasted for days, sometimes spiking up to over a hundred three degrees, and she remembered how it had seemed to help, the cool cloths at her face and neck. She sat with him for a while, re-wetting the cloths as they warmed from his fever, and trying to picture him as the boy Boromir had described. Tried to see him laughing with his brother at the fox that had escaped, and the hound that was left scratching at a hole in a cave wall. She tried to imagine him as the boy who had run away, and then been grounded because his brother had come looking for him. She wondered what Denethor must have been thinking at the time. Did he know that punishing the younger was the best way to punish the elder? Had he known it when he'd ordered Faramir to spend a week shut up in his room?

"Faramir," she said softly, leaning on the bed and gazing at his face. So like his brother's. "You can't leave him, you know," she said, her voice gentle. She took the cloths from his face and neck, and lay them in the bowl. She felt too tired to move, and didn't want them to dry hot on his hot skin. "You can't leave him," she murmured again, and leaned forward to lay her head on her arms, intending just to close her eyes, not for long. "Come back to him," she said softly. "Come back to him."

Slowly, she became aware of voices in the room. "...with the Steward's other son."

"Do you suppose he sent her? Perhaps to see that we watch him close?"

"Nay, I think not. He knows we know our business. But she should wake now, for that chair is no good for sleeping."

She turned her gaze and saw two women by the door. "I'm sorry," she said, sitting up and putting her hand to her neck, wincing at the soreness of the muscles. Her right hand was asleep. "I just came in to see him - I didn't mean to fall asleep on him."

"No harm done, my chick," said the older of the women, coming forward to help Maggie rise. "But you should find your own bed, and your own rest now, and let old Ioreth see to the young lord." Her eyes sparkled, and the strength in her hands belied the grey that streaked her hair. "Can you find your way?" she asked, and Maggie nodded, then looked towards Faramir again.

"Is he going to be all right?" she asked, turning back to face the woman, who held her arm gently.

"If there is aught we can do assure it," she replied, "we shall, but you must not worry yourself. You've your own ills to tend, I dare say, and should be seeing to them. Now hurry on, and let us do our work."

Maggie nodded, and slipped past the younger woman and out into the hallway, rubbing her cold hand and wishing she had an aspirin. Her head ached. Groggy and sore, she made her way back through the halls, and into the yard in front of the building, to find that evening had fallen while she slept, and stars glittered in the deep blue of the sky. She raised her face to the breeze that still blew, feeling the dampness that clung to the air after the rain. Glancing towards the tunnel that led to the Seventh Gate and the Citadel, she knew she should go up, but instead, turned to find a low bench near the wall, and sat down wearily, stretching her legs in front of her, and breathed.

Still the world seemed far away, and she felt apart from things, and watched in silence as figures approached. She knew the stride of Boromir, the particular way he displaced the air, and beside him she recognized the blue of Dol Amroth, and the Prince Imrahil. With them, another figure, though she wasn't sure who, but from the starlight gleaming on his pale hair, she thought Éomer. And approaching from another direction, the tall, white-haired wizard, and one cloaked in grey. They met in the shadowy yard, not twenty feet from her, and she didn't speak, but watched them as if she watched a dream. They spoke quietly, and Maggie felt a sort of vague surprise to hear them say that Éowyn was inside, and near death. She started to sit up, and as she did, the cloaked figure stepped forward into the light. 

Aragorn.

Unnoticed, Maggie stood and stepped closer.

There was a moment's silence, then Boromir gripped Aragorn's arm. "My friend," and his voice was low. "Why are you here, after what we spoke of? I thought you camped on the Pelennor tonight."

"I would," he replied. "I will, but Mithrandir came to me. Boromir," he said, "why did you not tell me of your brother's injury?"

The other man smiled wryly. "Why, Ranger, were my words unclear?" he asked. "I thought t'would be better if you did came not to the city while my father is in his madness. Does no one follow my commands but my own men?"

Aragorn returned the smile, and said, "But I am disguised, do you see?" his tone teasing. "A Ranger may avoid being noticed if he chooses, and I am naught but a captain of Rangers."

Boromir arched an eloquent brow, and Aragorn shook his head.

"I do not dismiss your warning, friend," he continued, serious, "and I have some idea what it may have cost you. But I would not have you gain a King _and_ lose your brother." 

Gandalf spoke then, words of urgency, but Maggie scarcely heard them, and she stepped forward to touch Boromir's arm. He turned to her as the others went inside, and smiled. "You are here," he said. "Come, we shall see to Faramir."

"Wait a moment," she answered, drawing him into her embrace. He gazed at her questioningly, and she turned her face from his and rested her head on his shoulder. "Just for a moment," she breathed, "let me feel your arms around me." 

He obliged, and she felt strength coming back to her from the strength in him. He stroked her hair, and after long moments had passed, he said gently, "How fare you, love? Is - is all well with you, and with your companions?"

She nodded. "Some of them are here, though I haven't seen them. But I don't think we've lost anyone. Yet, at least." She raised her head again and looked into his eyes. "Some of them are like Faramir," she said. "I don't know how we'll make them better."

He pushed a stray lock of hair back, and kissed her forehead, then drew her close again and held her in the cool evening. At last, he said, "The lore says that the true king has the hands of a healer. Aragorn may have the skill to wake them." His hands were gentle around her waist. "He healed me of the poison at Amon Hen. He may heal greater hurts than that."

"Can he heal the hurt your father has done you?" she asked wearily, then put her hand to her mouth, her eyes widening. "Oh, I didn't mean to say that," she said.

He smiled at her. "You are right, though," he said. "My father has done me an injury, and not only to this face you so admire." She touched the bruise, and he turned to kiss her fingers. "But I need not Aragorn to heal those wounds," he went on. "A man's mind may clear somewhat in the heat of battle, beside good comrades. He might remember his strength, and his own will." His eyes on hers were clear in the starlight, and he kissed her softly. "Come, lady. I would see Faramir."

When they reached Faramir's room, however, the sight that greeted them froze Maggie's heart.

Denethor, tall and proud, stood at Faramir's bedside, his hand on his younger son's motionless form. Imrahil, Éomer, and Gandalf were behind Aragorn, the warriors' hands on their swords, and Aragorn faced the Steward and Boromir's lieutenant Beran, whose own sword was drawn, and the tip pressed to Aragorn's throat. The room, large though it was, seemed close, the air drawn tight, and with a growl, Boromir entered. 

"Beran, sheathe your weapon," he commanded, and after a moment's hesitation, and with a sideways glance at Denethor, Beran obeyed.

Denethor's voice was hard when he spoke. "You shall answer for that, lieutenant," he said, "but first I shall deal with your Captain and this usurper."

"Aragorn has made no claim," said Boromir calmly, coming to stand beside his friend, "and as such can be no usurper. He is here as a captain of the Rangers, and to do what good he can in healing the hurts of those who fell under the Black Breath."

"'The hands of the king are the hands of a healer,' is this your thinking?" Denethor said scornfully. "Is this how you would prove his claim?"

"Such lore is no proof of kingship," Boromir replied. "I care not for that, but only that he might bring my brother back to me."

There was silence in the room, Aragorn and Boromir shoulder to shoulder in front of the Steward, Imrahil and Éomer's hands still on the hilts of their blades, and Gandalf watching the tableau, his thoughtful gaze resting on Boromir. Beran stood tense, between his Captain and his Steward.

"I have no mind for strife with you, Lord Steward," said Aragorn softly. "The Enemy is at our throats; let us not be at one another's as well." 

Denethor glanced at Beran. "Lieutenant, I told you to take this one from my sight. Do as I have commanded."

Beran turned to Boromir, whose gaze had not left his father's face.

"Do you all defy me?" said Denethor angrily. "Boromir, recall my words to you. Obey me now, and have the throne, and you can make this woman you so desire a queen instead of a whore, or stay a beggar to this Ranger, and your brother and your woman will feel the consequences!" His voice broke then, and he scowled. "You are my son," he said, "but I will take from you all that you love." But he sounded now not so certain, nor so hard as he had in the throne room, and Maggie saw that his hand remained on Faramir, gentle, despite his tone.

Boromir shook his head slowly. "I am your son, my lord," he said, "but I am no man's boy, to be coerced with threats and promises." Denethor started to speak but Boromir stopped him with a commanding look. "You raised me to know my own mind, Lord Steward, and to do my own will in all things," he said, his voice steady and strong. "And for all my life, your will has been mine, for always you have acted with wisdom, and clarity." He hesitated then, and Maggie could see him gathering himself, calming himself, to show his father neither anger to fight against nor weakness to scorn. "You try now," he continued evenly, "to thrust me onto so terrible a path that I know it is _not_ your will. Not _your_ will. I am your son, my lord," he said finally. "I am the man you made me."

Denethor watched him, doubtful, seeming uncertain how to contend with one who neither raged nor pleaded, and behind Boromir, Maggie saw Imrahil begin to relax, and place his hand on Éomer's, where it rested on his sword hilt.

Boromir sighed. "Would that I had never undertaken the journey to Imladris," he said sadly, "that I might have been here to see what shadow fell across you, defend you from it as I should have. Then would perhaps my brother, whom you love, not lie so stricken," and Denethor's gaze faltered, strayed to Faramir, and Maggie thought she saw regret in his eyes, "unwaking, and walking the paths of his own mind."

"Or perhaps _you_ would lie so," said Denethor, "and what would I have then? No son at all - only a..." but his voice faded, and he brought his hand to his brow.

"Your heart will not let you finish such a thought," said Boromir softly. "Not now, here, in the very room in which he lies. No, you do love Faramir, for all you know not how to understand him. 'Tis a puzzle to me," he went on thoughtfully, "for you are so alike." Denethor's eyes returned to Boromir's face, somewhat of the wariness returning with them, but Boromir didn't falter. "It is true," he said, a small smile beginning to play about his lips. "Both wise, both thoughtful, ever mindful of the whole. Where I see my course and take it, you and Faramir see the map, and study it, and all its pieces."

Denethor frowned, but the suspicion had left his countenance. "My son," he said, "you wrong yourself. You are as fine a Captain as any could wish for, as fine a strategist in battle, stronger, more valiant than any I have known."

Boromir nodded thoughtfully, and said, "I play to my strengths, Father, as does Faramir. But you, and Faramir, you have the wisdom, I have said it often." He looked into his father's eyes, then, his gaze clear and steady. "You see into men's hearts, do you and my brother," he said. "You saw mine, and truly." Denethor seemed to catch his breath. "Aye," said Boromir, nodding, "you saw truly. I _would_ be King."

Maggie froze, and her eyes flickered to Aragorn, to Imrahil and Éomer. But though the tension in the room had peaked, and the very air seemed tightly drawn, Aragorn made no move, but waited to hear what Boromir would say, and the others, she supposed, waited for Aragorn.

"I would be King," Boromir went on, his eyes never leaving Denethor. "I would rule Gondor as her shepherd, and her champion. I love her with every breath in my body, and I would see her glory return, and our people prosper." He looked to Aragorn and smiled, the smile genuine and unshadowed, though rueful. "You know this, my friend," he said, a wry humor touching his voice. "I do fear to give her over to another, whoever he may be, whatever his lineage. She is," and he hesitated, then said simply, "she is my home. She is my heart." But he shook his head then, his gaze returning to the Steward. "You saw truly, my lord, but you did not see deeply enough. For though my fear for Gondor in the hands of another is great, and my love for my brother as strong as death itself, I will not have you drive us into civil war, no matter the cost to me, or to you." 

The words hung heavy on the air, and Maggie counted her heartbeats as Denethor and Boromir regarded each other. Long moments passed, their eyes locked, before Denethor reached gently towards Boromir, his fingers touching the bruise on his face, the two shallow cuts his own rings had made. Boromir didn't move, and Denethor's gaze changed from angry, to regretful, to weary, as he held his son's face in his hand.

Finally Denethor sighed, and turned to sit heavily in the chair behind him. "But what of Gondor, my son?" he asked. "What of her fate in _his_ hands?" and he nodded towards Aragorn. "He does not know her," he said, his voice low, and tired. "He does not love her, or how could he have stayed away for all these long years?"

Boromir moved to stand before the Steward, and then he knelt down, taking his father's hands in his. Maggie was struck by the difference between this, now, and the terrible scene when Boromir had discovered Faramir's mission to Osgiliath. Now, the son was giving strength to the father, and Denethor seemed aged, and weary. His hands trembled in Boromir's. "I will make the choice, Father," Boromir said. "You must trust in me. And you must let Aragorn heal your son."

There was a long moment, and finally Denethor spoke. "The hands of the king are the hands of a healer," his low voice carrying in the still air of the room. "So much anger, so much bitterness," he said, closing his eyes. "I have held the white rod of the Stewards for too long, Boromir," he murmured. "You must take my place, now, and do as you will. I ... I am weary of this struggle." With that he stood, Boromir beside him, and he seemed suddenly frail, and old, all his years come on him at once. Boromir's face was grave, and he nodded to Beran, who came forward to take Denethor's arm.

The older man shrugged him off, saying, "I am not so frail as that, Beran, that I need a nursemaid to carry me from here to the Citadel." And straightening his back, he gave one final glance to Faramir, and walked from the room, his footsteps heavy and slow.

Boromir's voice was soft when he spoke to Beran. "See that my father returns to the Citadel," he said, "but keep him from the upper chambers."

"Yes, my lord," Beran replied, and then hesitated. "My lord, would you..." and he looked at Boromir questioningly, and didn't finish the thought.

Boromir smiled gently. "There will be time enough later to understand the... to understand my father's wishes. For now, make it known that the Lord Steward is," and he hesitated, "indisposed. And that I shall command the City in his place, for now. And Beran," he said, and his lieutenant turned to him. "Beran, keep my father from the upper chambers of the Tower," his voice stern, but worried. "If he troubles you on this score, send for me."


	14. Awake

I don't own any part of LOTR and I'm certainly making no money from this, but I'm more grateful to Mr. Tolkien than I can say for creating such a rich world that so many people want to engage with it themselves. [See previous chapters for other disclaimers and notes.] A few lines of text in this chapter are quoted directly from Lord Of The Rings: The Return Of The King: The Houses Of Healing.

**An End To Innocence**

**Chapter Fourteen: Awake**

Aragorn had sent the herb master of the Houses of Healing for a plant he called athelas, and finally a boy Maggie hadn't seen before had come with it, though upon seeing Faramir, he had burst immediately into tears. It was all Maggie could do not to join him, and she bit her knuckle, hard, to make herself stop. She didn't think it would help Boromir much if he saw her weeping along with him.

Boromir now stood by his brother's bedside as Aragorn crushed two leaves of the herb, placed them into a bowl of steaming water, and held it before Faramir. It had been hard, watching the Ranger as he knelt over Faramir's motionless form, one hand to his brow, calling to him softly from time to time, each time more softly. Harder still had it been to watch Boromir, whose face had grown more grave with each moment, as though he feared Aragorn hadn't the strength, after all, to pull Faramir back from the dark places of his mind. But as soon as Aragorn had crushed the leaves of the athelas, it was as if an air as pure as Maggie had ever breathed suddenly filled the room, and a weight that she hadn't known was on her lifted. She felt she was still a child at home, lying beneath the huge old willow tree in her grandmother's back yard, enveloped in the clean scent of earth and grass and new green leaves.

But finally Faramir stirred. As he opened his eyes to Aragorn, his soft voice carried on the still air, saying, "My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?"

"Walk no more in shadows, but awake," Aragorn said, smiling, and then glanced at Boromir. "You have been sore missed."

Faramir turned his head then and saw his brother, and gripped Boromir's hand as the elder bent close and kissed his forehead. "Welcome home, brother," Boromir said, and Maggie could see tears on his face.

Faramir smiled. "You weep," he said, and brought Boromir's hand to his lips. "But why? I am with you, and I shall not leave again." Boromir didn't speak, but Maggie saw his throat working, and she knew he struggled to maintain his composure in front of his uncle and Éomer.

"Rest now, Faramir, and eat," said Aragorn then. "Regain your strength. Gondor will have need of you 'ere long, and you must be ready."

"I will, lord," said Faramir, turning back to Aragorn. "For who would lie idle when the king has returned?"

Maggie thought she saw a shadow flicker across Boromir's features at that, but as the Ranger turned to follow Imrahil and Éomer out of the room, he said, "Aragorn, if there is aught this City can provide, you need but name it," and he glanced towards the doorway and back. "You go to tend the Lady of Rohan, and Master Meriadoc?"

"I do," he answered, "and others. But stay with your brother," he said with a smile. "I shall send word of Merry when he wakes."

"Thank you," Boromir replied, and no trace of the shadow Maggie had thought she'd seen was there now.

"My thanks to _you_, my friend," Aragorn said. "For without your intervention, I fear I would have spent this night in a cell below the City," and he smiled again, and left the room.

Boromir turned at once to Maggie. "Would you thither and find someone to fetch broth, and bread? Faramir has not eaten for too long," and he turned to his brother. "Unless you feel strong enough for something sterner?"

Faramir smiled faintly. "Broth and bread seem stern enough for now, and water."

"Water, we have here," said Boromir, and Maggie slipped out of the room as he moved to the other side of the bed, where the pitcher rested beside the silver cup.

Soon enough she found someone who looked like she worked there, and she touched the woman's arm. "The Steward's son Faramir," she said as the woman turned to face her. "He's awake, and his brother wondered if we could get broth, and bread brought to the room."

A smiled bloomed across her features. "The lord Faramir wakes?" she said, her voice delighted. "Oh, this is good news! Yes, I shall have food brought straight away."

When Maggie returned to Faramir's room the younger brother was sitting up, propped against pillows, Boromir in the chair at his bedside. She slipped in quietly and said, "Dinner will be along shortly."

"Thank you," said Boromir and Faramir as one, and both chuckled.

"Come," said Faramir, gesturing to her, "sit beside me. My brother shall have the hard chair, and you and I shall rest ourselves here while he tells me what passed as I lay sleeping."

Maggie started forward, hiding her nervousness. She'd come to care for Faramir through the eyes of his brother, but apart from one night spent drinking with them, she hardly knew him. She'd thought to slip out again and leave the brothers alone, go to find Greg and Jack, or Janet, but she couldn't very well refuse Faramir when he asked her to stay, so she seated herself on the edge of the bed, and Faramir took her hand and kissed it. "A fair, flowering tree, with roots strong as iron," he said, smiling, and Boromir laughed.

"Oh, I see how this plays," the elder said, his tone mock stern. "Scarcely awake and already you think to charm my lady from my side! Well, you shall not win her easily." His grey eyes sparkled as he regarded his brother.

"Ah, no," Faramir answered, "for any can see that those strong roots of hers reach for the river of _your_ affections," and he smiled broadly at Boromir, "which I know runs deep, and for the most part untapped." He looked at her once again for a long moment, and she felt her nerves calm completely, wrapped in his gaze as gently as a sister before he turned back to Boromir. "Tell me, now, how fares the City? You are both here, and I am here, and the king is here, so I would assume it is not yet overrun."

"Not yet," said Boromir, smiling. "The Enemy has been driven back, for a time at least, and we have retaken the Pelennor."

"I am relieved to hear it." Faramir's grey eyes drifted towards the window, through which Maggie could just see stars in the deep blue-black of the sky. He looked at his brother again. "And how went the battle? Our soldiers?"

Boromir raised his brother's hand to his lips. "There will be time for such news when you have rested," he said, but Faramir frowned.

"I will rest better, knowing."

After a hesitation, Boromir acquiesced. "We fared better than we might have," he said gently. "I have not yet a count of our dead, but there are fewer than there would have been had we not had the fell weapons of my lady and her comrades."

A flicker of dismay crossed the younger man's features, and Maggie felt his hand tighten briefly on hers. "What of the warning?" he asked. "What of Saruman's threat?"

"We had to," said Maggie, and he turned to her, his grey eyes piercing hers, not cruelly, but keenly, as though he could see her entirely, and she understood what Boromir had meant when he'd said his brother could see into men's hearts. "It - we were so outnumbered," she said, and she worked to keep from dropping her gaze. "So many more would have died if we hadn't. They had catapults, siege towers. They know the range of your weapons, and they kept everything just outside it. We didn't have anything that could reach them except what my team could bring." She hesitated. "Faramir," she said finally, "I'm serious. We wouldn't have done it if we hadn't had to. We couldn't just let people die. Not when there was an option."

"They are terrible weapons," said Boromir. "But I think the families of the men whose lives they spared would thank us, no matter Saruman's odd humour."

Just then the door opened and a older woman came in with a tray. Maggie and Boromir cleared out of her way as she set the tray down on the table, fluffed Faramir's pillows, then settled him back again and set the tray across the bed, murmuring all the while about how good it was to see the young lord awake and alert again and with color in his cheeks. Then she made a quick curtsey and bustled out.

Boromir and Maggie returned to the bedside, and as Faramir took a bit of the broth, Boromir went on as though they hadn't been interrupted. "Had the siege engines not been destroyed," he said, "it would have gone ill for us. They had the fire of Orthanc which Saruman used against Helm's Deep. Had they cast it inside our walls, the First Circle would have burned, and many more men would have died than did. And who can say what other missiles they might have thrown against us, or how many of their soldiers might have reached the top of our walls had the towers not been destroyed?"

After a moment Faramir nodded. "You are right, I am sure, my brother," he said, though his voice was doubtful. "It grieves me that our need was so great, and I not with you." After a moment, he said, "And Denethor?" his voice studiedly calm.

"Our father was by your bedside earlier," said Boromir.

Faramir glanced up, startled. "Was he?"

Boromir nodded. "He inquired after you before the battle," he said, "and when I returned, I found him here, with you."

"Yet he was not here when I awoke, when the king called me back." Faramir fixed that piercing gaze on Boromir. "Did they meet?"

Nodding again, Boromir said, "I believe Aragorn arrived somewhat after Denethor."

"And did aught pass between them?"

A moment's hesitation. "A little," he replied.

Faramir's brow furrowed and he said, "Must I ask each question aloud, Boromir? Tell me how they met, and how they left things."

Boromir sighed and dropped his gaze. "They met as they are," he said softly. "One who brings great change to one who does not wish to see all that he has known come to an end."

"Long have the Stewards awaited the King," Faramir replied. "It is no end, but a beginning."

"Our father has seen many hard years," Boromir answered. "He did not look for the coming of the king, and never in the likeness of one who served our grandfather so long ago."

Frowning, Faramir looked hard at his brother. "I do not understand. Do you mean Ecthelion, or Adradhil? And how do you mean - that the king pretends to be one who served our grandfather? Why would he?"

Boromir shook his head, scowling. "I should not have spoken," he said. "It was thoughtless. I trouble you with politics when you should rest."

"Yet I pray you, continue," said Faramir. "I am not so weak that I cannot listen, and consider."

After a moment, Boromir said, "You have heard the name of Thorongil?"

Faramir nodded. "One whom Ecthelion esteemed, and our father...did not."

"Aye," said Boromir. "And you know that some in whom the blood of Númenor is strong - some of these are blessed to live for the lifetime of two, or three men of weaker blood. You know this?"

"You know I do, brother," said Faramir, still frowning. "Do you tell me that Aragorn is such a one, and served Gondor as Thorongil? that he was a man grown before our father even took our mother to wife?"

"So it would seem," Boromir replied, "though I have yet to hear it from the one who would know beyond doubt."

Faramir was quiet for a moment, then said, "You have not told me how our father left things with the king."

"It is not entirely clear," said Boromir, "but as you saw, Aragorn is free."

"And Denethor?"

Boromir shrugged, "He was in a strange frame of mind, though less agitated than he has been of late. It seemed he passed the rod of Stewards to me, and retired to the Citadel."

There was a startled pause. "Denethor? give up the rod of Stewards? Is he so ill as that?"

Shaking his head, Boromir replied, "Not ill, brother, but weary. And being that the rod itself remains in his keeping, I would not think to act too strongly on his words before I speak with him again."

Faramir nodded. "Perhaps simple weariness is a sign of improvement," he said, "after the madness that seemed to take him in the months you have been gone."

"Apart from that I met this lady, I would all together regret the journey," Boromir said softly, and Maggie could see in his eyes that he wasn't thinking only of Denethor and Faramir when he said it.

Faramir smiled slightly, and clasped his brother's hand. "We have not spoken overlong on the events that befell you," he said, glancing at Boromir, but not holding his gaze. "Much must have happened, for you were gone so long, and in such company."

Boromir's eyes were shadowed, and he gently reclaimed his hand and stood, turning to the window. "Much indeed, Faramir," he said. "And much that I would share with you, but perhaps not this night."

Faramir gazed thoughtfully at his brother's back, and the silence stretched almost to discomfort before he finally said, "In the morning then. But tarry here a while longer, Boromir. I have missed your presence."

Boromir turned, smiling, and came back to Faramir's bedside. "And I, yours. Shall I speak of Imladris?" he said. "For there is beauty there that need not wait 'till the light of day for the telling."

Faramir returned the smile. "Then tell me of Imladris. Morning will be soon enough for the weightier subjects we must address." 

Just then, there was a soft knock at the door and a young boy came in. "I was sent to bring you word, lord Boromir," he said. "The Halfling has wakened, and sleeps again peacefully, and his cousin is at his bedside."

Boromir drew a breath, then smiled at the boy. "That is good news indeed. Thank you."

"What about the - the strangers?" asked Maggie. "The ones who - " but she hesitated, unsure how to explain it to a child.

"The ones whose dress is strange?" asked the boy, "and who carried the fell weapons which kept the Enemy from our walls? They, too, came back at the king's voice, and sleep now naturally, and I have heard they will heal from their wounds."

"Oh, thank God," she murmured, closing her eyes as the boy slipped out. "Thank God."

The cool of the evening had turned chill by the time Maggie and Boromir stepped out of the Houses of Healing, and she slipped her arm through his as they walked towards the gate to the Citadel. She looked up at him, at his shadowed eyes that gazed into the distance, and said quietly, "Tired?"

After a moment he nodded. "Aye, indeed. It has been a ... a difficult day, though my heart feels lighter for the return of Faramir." He drew a breath. "I have missed him, Maggie."

They passed in silence into the tunnel, and when they came into the courtyard on the other side she caught her breath at the sight of the fountain and the tree glimmering in the starlight. He looked to where she looked, and smiled. "Even withered, it is lovely," he said softly.

"Yes it is," she murmured, then said after a moment, "Should I stay with you tonight?"

"I am too weary to do aught but sleep," he answered, "and I will rise early. There are things Faramir and I must discuss."

"I want to get up early anyway," she said. "I've not seen Greg or Jack yet, or Janet. I thought I'd come down in the morning and do that while you talk to Faramir."

He glanced at her then, a quick smile. "Then yes, stay with me."

Though the night was young, they were both too tired to do more than eat a quick meal and fall into bed, and now lay side by side beneath soft linens. But as happens sometimes with the bone-weary, sleep eluded them. She lay curled around him, her head resting in the hollow of his shoulder, listening to his breathing. A light wind blew through the White City, singing in the stonework, and she tugged the bed linens closer around them both, remembering a night that seemed long ago, falling asleep across the fire from him, wrapped in his cloak. He moved his hand to cup her shoulder, stroking the skin gently with warm fingers.

"Can't sleep?" she asked.

He didn't answer for a long moment. "I wonder," he said finally, his voice low, "what place there will be for me, if we do defeat the Enemy at last." 

She didn't speak, but waited for him to continue. 

"All my life, I have looked to the Steward as if he were my king," he went on softly, thoughtfully, "for as well he might have been. The line of Stewards is also descended from Elendil, though not direct, but to my mind it matters little. We have governed here since Eärnur went into Minas Morgul and did not return, and have kept the freedom of the West. Thus is fitness proved, by service, not by blood."

"What happened to - to Eärnur?" Maggie asked, stumbling a little over the pronunciation.

"That was never discovered," Boromir replied. "'Twas thought he was taken by the Enemy, though I know not why a more certain answer was never discovered. Perhaps Faramir might know, or my father." He was quiet again. "His Steward had advised against his going, is all the rest of the story that I know. That, and that ever since that dark day we have held Gondor in our hands, and awaited the coming of the king."

She stayed quiet, waiting, but he didn't speak. Finally, she said, "Is that what you want to talk to Faramir about?" knowing it wasn't, but hoping to draw him out.

He shook his head. "No, I would - I would tell him somewhat of the journey from Imladris. I would hear his counsel on how to proceed, though I know in part what he will say."

"What's that?"

He made a sound that might have been a sigh, or might have been something akin to a laugh. "He will advise me to celebrate the coming of the king," he replied. "He will remind me of the oath of the Stewards, and he will tell me that he saw in Aragorn's eyes his fitness to rule our people." He did sigh, then, and went on softly, "I have seen so myself, but I wonder if what I see in a man's eyes is reason enough to give Gondor to one I know no better than I do Aragorn."

Maggie stroked the soft skin of his throat, and she said, "It's because he was here before, and didn't stay. Are you worried he isn't really - really in love with Gondor, the way you are? Maybe won't protect her the way you would?"

A long silence passed, and she only knew he didn't sleep because his breath neither slowed nor deepened. Finally, he said, "There are many reasons a claimant to the throne might have wished to keep his name hidden. I was a child when Ecthelion died, and do not know whether he would have welcomed Thorongil had his lineage been known. Indeed," he went on thoughtfully, "I know not whether Ecthelion _could_ have welcomed him, for even the Steward has others to contend with. No leader truly rules alone. The politics of a thousand years ago has always been more to my brother's turn of mind than to mine, but I do know Isildur's line was rejected when last tried. It may be that Ecthelion could not have made a king of Thorongil even if either had wished it. Yet..," and he paused again. "You will think me churlish, but I would that he had told me." His hand was warm on the cool skin of her shoulder. "I fought by his side," he said quietly. "I followed his leadership. He might have thought to mention that he had known my family, served my people. Led my people in battle. Instead, I hear of his lineage from Elrond the Halfelven, and only months later, from my father in his madness, that he is also Thorongil, who overthrew the Corsairs in Umbar, but departed Gondor without again laying eyes on my grandfather whom he served. And who loved him." He took a breath, and she thought she heard it catch. "And he, in love with an Elf maiden. He will marry her, I know, and we will be allied through her to her father Elrond, who has little use for the race of Men."

"Does he?" she asked. "Why?"

There was a pause, and he said at last, "Heed me not, I speak from weariness. Elrond showed me every kindness when I met him, for all he seemed to have much to say on the failing blood of Númenor, while little to say of the aid he swears Gondor has had these dark years. Elrond - " and he hesitated. "The Elves may be no allies of Men, yet neither are they our enemies. But to accept a king raised by them, to have him take an Elf to be his queen - where will his loyalties truly lie? with Gondor, or with his Elven kin?" He hesitated again, then sighed. "I hope that Faramir will have some wisdom to ease my mind," he said. "I wish not to reject Aragorn's claim, but neither do I wish to accept it. My heart is torn between my duty to the throne and my duty to my people." He paused again, and she waited, stroking the soft skin of his stomach, to hear what he would say. "And, I confess it," he continued finally, "my desires for myself. For even if I can welcome this man as my king, I still know not how to place myself in what will come." He shifted then, raising himself on his elbow and looking at her mildly in the dimness. 

"Since long before I was a soldier," he said, "I have been the Steward's heir. From the time I could form words, I have known what burden would be mine, and I have welcomed it." He brought his hand to her face, took a lock of her hair between his fingers, curling it idly, releasing it. "This land, her people, they are my heart." His eyes moved to the window, and his fingers rested on her cheek. "And perhaps I am Steward even now," he said, a slight, wry smile on his lips, "though my father yet has the rod of office in his keeping." He laughed softly. "A Steward who holds not the scepter serving a king who wears not the crown. A well-matched pair indeed. Our people will rejoice." 

She smiled, and reached up to touch his face, but she couldn't find words to tell him everything would be all right. She didn't know if it would be. Finally, she pulled him close and kissed him. "Talk to Faramir in the morning," she said softly. "There's time yet to figure out what to do."

He nodded, and lay back beside her. "Our first task is to defeat the Enemy," he said at last. "Without we do that, all other questions are answered for us. And all in the hands of the Halfling," he said in a sigh.

There was another long silence, during which Maggie knew his eyes looked far away from Gondor.

"I would have killed him for it, had I had the chance." His voice so quiet she almost believed he hadn't meant to speak aloud.

"You had every chance," Maggie replied softly. "You were with him from Imladris to Amon Hen. How many days and nights is that?" He didn't answer, and she said, "Seriously, it's not a rhetorical question. I really don't know. How many?"

"Many," he replied, "and I take your meaning. You suggest I had ample opportunity for murder."

"And did you take any of those opportunities?"

He turned and kissed her hair. "You are my staunchest champion, love."

"I'm also right." She sat up and looked at him, pale in the watery light that reflected off the white stone outside. "That's what you're afraid to talk to Faramir about, isn't it? You're going to tell him about this terrible failure you had, that I still think wasn't so much a failure as a momentary slip in an abiding victory, and you think he'll think less of you."

"Do not," he said, anger coloring his voice. "Do not reproach me that I take responsibility for my wrongs."

"I don't," she answered. "I just think you take too much responsibility and not enough credit."

He turned his face away from her, towards the darkness of the room. "You are wrong," he said. "That I could - that I could attack one entrusted to my care, one as - as small, as untried as he. It is not an act that can be forgiven. As well I might have attacked a child, for he could hardly better defend himself against even the least of my soldiers. Had he not slipped that wretched thing onto his finger, I know not what I might have done. I have never felt so," and he hesitated, groping for the words, "so mindless with need, so - angry at being thwarted." He turned back to her and she saw again tears in his eyes, and wondered if they would ever see a day when her lover would have no reason to weep. "You did not meet the ringbearer," he continued softly. "I speak of him as though he were a child, but he was not - is not. No child, but one grown to manhood far from the shadow that lies upon my land, and with all the innocence of one who has never seen battle, nor true evil. He carried - he carries a sword, yes, barely as long as my forearm, but in all his life I dare say he never had use for one, nor perhaps even raised one until Isildur's bane came into his keeping. I could lift him with one hand if I had a mind to, and could break his small bones with scarcely more effort than I take to break a branch for firewood."

"So, how did he live through your attack?" she asked softly.

He dropped his gaze from hers and said flatly, "I know not. Perhaps the Valar were with him."

She was quiet for a long time, regarding him, and he didn't raise his eyes. Finally, her voice low, she said, "Why are you so determined?"

He shook his head. "If I cannot accept the blame when it is mine," he answered finally, "I am not worthy of being a soldier of Gondor, nor my father's heir, nor Faramir's brother. As wrong as my action was, to deny my fault in it would be the final dishonour."

Outside, the wind still murmured through the Citadel, and Maggie slipped her fingers over Boromir's cheek, stroked the strong bones of his face with her thumb. "I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't understand. I shouldn't have pushed you like that."

A smile ghosted about his lips then, and he met her gaze. "Lie back, sweet," he whispered. "We have passed many hard days and nights, and there are more to come. Lie back, and close your eyes," and his arms encircled her and brought her to him, "and I shall close mine, and we shall rest. And perhaps even sleep."

The morning dawned clear, and a breeze blew westward through the purpling sky. It was already hard to recall that the light of day had been hidden for almost a week by the shadows from Mordor. Below, on the Pelennor, the work to clear the fields of carnage had continued throughout the night, fires leaping high and sending smoky shadows of their own skyward, but they couldn't hide the approaching dawn. Maggie and Boromir rose with the sun, and soon were on their way to the Houses of Healing. When they stepped inside, Maggie said softly, "Do you have any idea where they'd have put my friends?"

Boromir shook his head, and gestured to a passing attendant, who stopped and said, "Yes, lord? How may I be of service?"

"Can you take this lady to the rooms of her companions?" he asked. "The ones whose dress is outlandish, and whose speech is strange?"

"Yes, lord." he replied, and turning to Maggie said, "They sleep now, all of them, but I shall show you where their rooms are, for we have bedded them all along one hallway for their comfort, and if you will take care not to wake them, I believe a familiar face would be welcome when they wake of their own."

"Thank you," said Maggie, and with a quick smile to Boromir, she followed the attendant.

Shortly, they came to a hallway, and the attendant said, "I know not which of your companions you most desire to see, nor, I fear, do I know their names, but you may search among these rooms, for there are none on this hall but they, and," he added with a smile, "the doors are well oiled. May I leave you here, or is there aught else you require of me?"

"No, no, this is great," she said. "I think I can manage from here."

"Well enough, then," he said, and sketching a quick bow, he turned and hurried back the way they'd come.

Maggie looked down the hall. Three doors were to the left, and four to the right, and very quietly she opened each door in turn until she came to where Greg and Jack lay, their beds separated by a small table and two low chairs. They slept, the room dim, light filtering in through the shutters that covered the windows. Slipping into the room, she tip-toed over to one of the chairs and sat down, leaning back and bringing her feet up to rest on the opposite chair, then stayed there quietly, listening to them breathe. It was a soothing sound, and she could catch the faint, warm odor of their skin, familiar to her as her own from years of training together. She wondered idly, and not for the first time, whether spending so much time sweating on each other during training might have caused them to become a part of one another, caused their scent to mingle with her own, so that really, they were always together. Sometimes when she stepped into the shower in the morning, even if she hadn't trained the night before or even seen them, the steam from the hot water rising up around her would seem to carry their fragrance with it. Theirs, and Mira's, and Paul's. She wondered where Paul was, and Mira, whether they were in the Houses of Healing at all. But it was Jack and Greg who had really scared her, when Mira had said they didn't wake. She wanted to see them awake again. Mira and Paul would turn up eventually, she was sure.

She lay her head back against the chair, and closed her eyes, and her last thought before she drifted into a doze was that if only their mobile phones worked here, she could call them and see where they were.

She opened her eyes again when she heard movement, and sitting up quietly, saw Jack shift, and turn, and wake. He looked around groggily, then saw Maggie.

"Hey there, sleeping beauty," she whispered, smiling broadly. "How you feel?"

He smiled back. "I don't even know. Where the hell am I?"

"The Houses of Healing," she replied. "Hospital, basically."

He nodded, looking around the room again. "Nice hospital," he said. "They don't usually have such impressive. . . tapestries." His expression puzzled, he never the less grinned at her. "So, my insurance is paying for this, right?"

She chuckled softly. "Don't you worry about it, babe. You're covered. They think y'all are the best. You should hear 'em - you're the ones 'who carried the fell weapons which kept the Enemy from our walls.' Heroes, man."

He shifted a little and sat up. "So who was that guy who - " and his expression clouded. "Who - woke me up?"

"I think you must mean Aragorn. Tall, dark hair, kind of scruffy-looking? Grey eyes?"

He nodded. "That's the one."

"It seems he's either the Captain of the Northern Rangers," she said, "which is sort of an elite fighting group, or possibly he's the king. It's not quite clear just yet."

He looked at her. "King."

She nodded. "Maybe."

"Uh-huh. Well." He hesitated. "First time I've met a king. Didn't we get rid of all the kings back home? Expansionist Democracy and all that?"

She shrugged. "There are a few here and there," she said. "Remember Old Jordan. And Northern Russia - they have one too."

"Uh-huh." He pushed his pillows up against the headboard and leaned back. "Well, he's got my vote, if you vote for kings. I don't know what the hell happened, but he got me out of it, and I'm fucking grateful."

She leaned forward a little and reached out to touch his arm. "Where did y'all go?" she asked gently.

He looked at the tapestry that hung across from the bed. "Someplace not fun," he answered. "I - um. Really don't want to talk about him - it. I - " and he looked at her. "I just would really like to go the hell home."

"I'm afraid to," she said. "Sorrow - he's still looking for us."

"I don't care," Jack said. "We've got places we can go. He won't find me. Us."

She stroked his arm, took his hand in hers. "Maybe just stay for a little while," she said. "The enemy's been driven back, we're safe now."

"Safe?" he said. "Those flying things - they can - they could show up again any time. We're not safe," he said, his voice starting to rise, "and this isn't our world. We need to go home."

In the other bed, Greg stirred. She turned to him, keeping her hold on Jack's hand as Greg's eyes opened.

"Maggie?" he said. "Jack - hey buddy. You all right?"

He nodded. "Mostly. You?"

Greg nodded as well. "Who was that guy? The one who did that thing?"

"A maybe king," said Jack. 

"A maybe king? What's a maybe king?"

"A king that it hasn't actually been decided yet whether he's king," said Maggie.

"Wouldn't you know that sort of thing?"

"It's a long story," she said.

"Uh-huh." Greg sat up. "Man, my head's spinning."

"You want me to call someone?" Maggie asked, worried.

"Nah," Greg answered. "It's just I've been asleep too long. Why didn't you wake me?"

"They told me not to," she said. "Y'all need to rest."

"We need to go home," Jack muttered.

"Home?" said Greg. "Did we get rid of Sorrow then? Man, I missed everything."

"No," said Maggie, "Sorrow's still a problem."

"Ah." Greg glanced at Jack. "Well, we _could_ go underground," he said. "If you're really serious about getting out of here."

"I really don't think it's a good idea," said Maggie.

"Do you not? or do you just not want to go, yourself?"

She frowned. "Both. Look," she said, "Sorrow's fucking powerful, and there are people here who can help us get rid of him."

"Are you sure?"

She paused. "Pretty sure. And they sure as hell owe us now."

"Yeah they do," said Jack. "But will they care?"

"Yes," she said firmly, but she wondered. "Anyway, we don't even know if we _can_ leave," she went on. "I've not talked to Janet yet, and she may not - " and Maggie stopped herself, then said, "Why don't I go find Janet and see how she's doing?"

Greg and Jack were looking at her, stricken. "Yeah," said Jack. "Would you?"

"Yeah. I'll be back shortly."

Two doors down, she found Janet, awake, and with her Meylari.

"Hey there," she said, stepping into the room with a smile. "How are y'all?"

Janet smiled at her. "Good," she said. "Awake, alert, ready for action. Except Mey tells me the action's over."

Maggie laughed. "Well, for a little while, at least." She came and stood next to Meylari, noticing how gently the woman held Janet's hand. "So, if you needed to use that talisman again," she said, "like, to take some folks home, would you be able to?"

Janet nodded. "I think so. Are we ready to go deal with Sorrow?"

Maggie shook her head. "Not yet, I don't think, but Greg and Jack want to split, and they think they've got it sussed out where they can stay - maybe where whoever can stay - until we can take care of the guy."

Janet glanced at Meylari. "Yeah, I could send them home, if they want to go."

"You don't want to leave too?"

"Not really," she answered, but she didn't go on, and Maggie didn't press her. 

"Well, okay then, they'll be glad to hear it," she said. "Though I'm going to see if I can get them to stay anyway."

"Surely they would wish to bide here for a time, at least," said Meylari, "if they still face threat in your own world, and our threat is for the moment passed."

Maggie shook her head. "I'm not sure," she said. "Jack's kind of freaked out, and Greg'll probably go along with what Jack wants before he'd let Jack go it alone. I think it has something to do with the Black Riders, and this - thing they did. The guys were unconscious for a while, and I think it - wasn't a good place."

"I have heard that the king called them back from shadows," said Meylari. 

"Yeah," Maggie answered, "but they're just not wild about being in a place where things like that can happen." She shook her head. "You've gotta understand, Meylari. We're not used to this kind of thing. I mean, there hasn't even _been_ magic in our world - well, I mean, that we've most of us known about - for more than a couple of decades. We haven't even managed to make decent laws about it."

Meylari frowned. "You said your enemy had been practicing his art for ninety years," she said. "I do not understand."

"Well, we didn't know," said Janet, and Meylari turned to her. "People started using it in secret when it first came back," she said, "and I don't think anyone's ever pinpointed exactly when it did come back."

"If 'back' is what it came," said Maggie. "I mean, that assumes it was there once, and we don't know that it was. Hell, maybe he brought it. Maybe it was never here - well, there - 'till then."

"But if we do come from - I mean, if this is our past," said Janet, glancing from Meylari to Maggie, "then it was here. There. And if not, then how could Sorrow be Saruman? It'd all just be a big coincidence."

"Maybe it is," said Maggie. "Either way, they can still help us. And they owe us, now." But her voice held far more confidence than she felt.


	15. In The Gardens

I don't own any part of LOTR and I'm certainly making no money from this, but I'm more grateful to Mr. Tolkien than I can say for creating such a rich world that so many people want to engage with it themselves. [See previous chapters for other disclaimers and notes.] A few lines of text in this chapter are quoted directly from Lord Of The Rings: The Return Of The King: The Last Debate.

**An End To Innocence**

**Chapter Fifteen: In The Gardens**

When Maggie was finally ready to leave the Houses of Healing, she felt worse than when she'd come in. "'Healing' my ass," she muttered irritably to herself. Jack and Greg wanted to go home, and she'd realized in talking with them that she really had no idea whether Aragorn or Gandalf would be willing to help them, regardless of the debt she thought they owed - and on which Chip, at least, would be be very intent on collecting. 

She turned down what she thought was the hallway leading to the entrance, but the next turn didn't bring her to the door. "Oh for fuck's sake," she said, stopping and looking around. "Hell. Where am I?" No one was around, only closed doors to either side. "It must be here somewhere," she muttered, and started forward again, eventually coming to a doorway that led out into a courtyard and garden she hadn't seen before. A gentle breeze blew in from outside, and it smelled of flowers and sweet herbs. With no better idea what to do, she stepped quietly out into the bright morning, and stopped, looking around.

Close by, she heard voices.

"For the faces of Gandalf and Aragorn are grave. Much I wonder what counsels they are taking in the tents there below."

Gimli. She was about to take a breath and speak, but then Legolas' soft voice carried through the air to her, and she held still at his words.

"Boromir is with them as well," he said, and hesitated. "I am troubled. I would that I could tell what passes through the mind of the Steward's eldest son, for long have I misliked the look I see when he regards his king."

Scarcely breathing, Maggie listened, fully over her dislike of eavesdropping when it concerned her lover, and quickly suppressing a wish to give the Elf a swift kick in the knee.

"Oh, give the Man his due," said Gimli. "He has been agreeable enough to Aragorn's will, hasn't he?" 

"Yes," said Legolas, "overall, he has acquiesced, but often not without his own struggle."

"Well, he is a proud Man," Gimli acknowledged, "and who is Aragorn to him but a Ranger who bears the good will of the Elves, an ancestor's sword, and the blood of long-hidden kings?"

"He is the Man who walked the Paths of the Dead to bring aid to Gondor, and Boromir's city," Legolas replied.

"And now would take Gondor and Boromir's city from him," said Gimli. "Now, don't give me that glare, friend, I only try to show you how it might look from the other Man's side of the argument."

"He owes Estel his allegiance," Legolas said, "and I believe he knows this. Yet he has not indicated how he will move, and it troubles me."

"Boromir is honourable, Legolas," said Pippin then, "and I wish you would not doubt him. He would have died protecting us, if such had been his fate that day."

"To die protecting comrades is the way of a soldier," said Legolas, and Maggie cursed silently that she couldn't see his face when he spoke. "But it is no proof that his mind will lead him to the right path. He is brave, and loyal, but he is also proud, and has expected his whole life to rule Gondor. It may be Estel is not _his_ hope."

"Please do not argue," came Merry's weary voice, and Maggie felt her heart lurch at the sound of it, so sad, and so tired, and she wondered what had happened to him in the time they'd been separated. "Boromir and Aragorn will come to an agreement, I am certain of it," he went on. "But if they are at odds now, which we do not know, then I would not have strife between you and Boromir as well, for you are both dear to me. He is a worthy Man."

"He is honourable, Merry," said Legolas gently, "I do not doubt it. But I am not sure where his heart lies, and he has the power to cause strife, or to prevent it, according to his will."

"He will not hurt Gondor," said Pippin firmly. "I know it as I know my own name."

"He would not mean to," said Legolas. "On that, we agree."

"Would that with our victory here this war were over," said Gimli with a sigh. "But 'till that time, neither Boromir nor Aragorn will address the issue of Gondor's throne, I believe. And whatever there is left to do for the defeat of the Enemy, I would have a part in it, for the honour of the folk of the Lonely Mountain."

"And I for the Great Wood," said Legolas, "and for the love of the Lord of the White Tree."

There was silence then, and for a long moment Maggie stayed still, trying to decide whether to advance or retreat. Before she could make up her mind, though, she heard footsteps and voices behind her, approaching from within.

"Now man, they didn't make a deal with us, remember that." Gus' smooth voice silky in the air.

"Yeah, but I figure at this point we've got some major bargaining power if these people are really as honourable as it looks like they want to think they are," said Chip, and Maggie turned to see him coming towards her with Gus beside him. "What do you think, girl?" he asked as they reached her. "We went balls-out for them - think they'll come through for us?"

"Hey now," she said, falling into step beside them, "they've still got to finish off Sauron. They can't just skip off home with us, not 'till he's taken care of."

"Well who the fuck's ass did we kick, then, if not Sauron's?" Chip asked, "'cause I'm sure as _hell_ not sending any more of my people out after more monsters like those. We've done our bit, and they need to - " but he stopped as they came upon the quartet to whose conversation Maggie had been listening. "What the fuck?" he murmured.

"Maggie!" said Pippin brightly, smiling. "There you are! And these must be more of your companions." He hopped off the wall on which he'd been seated and motioned them forward. "Come and look - you can see almost to the edge of the world from up here. Look there - the Anduin flows away southward into Ithilien and Lebennin. See how it sparkles now the gloom of those wretched shadows is gone!"

"Lebanon?" said Chip, startled, unmoving.

Pippin shook his head. "Close. Not Lebenn-_on_, but Lebenn-_in_."

"Ah."

"It's weird, I know," said Maggie, gently taking Chip's right arm and Gus' left. "Lebanon and Lebennin, Saruman and Sauron and Sorrow - it's all pretty strange." She started towards her erstwhile companions, murmuring, "it's okay, they don't bite." She caught Legolas' glance as she said it and realized he'd heard, but his quick smile reassured her and she briefly forgave him his earlier remarks.

"Y'all," she said as they reached the four, "this is Chip, who's the leader of the larger of our teams, and Gus, who's - what are you, Gus? Squad leader?"

Gus glanced at her, startled. "Hmm? Oh - um - until Tank's leg heals up, yeah."

"One of Chip's squad leaders," she finished with a smile. "Guys, I want you to meet Legolas, Gimli, Merry, and Pippin, who've been so nice to me and who didn't kill me on sight when I turned up in the middle of their melee."

"Grateful to you," said Gus with an attempt at a smile. "She's way too cute to kill."

Gimli chuckled. "Aye, and useful," he said. "As I hear you are. They tell me these weapons you carry are a sight to behold."

"Oh, yeah," said Chip, looking around the gardens. "They're pretty good. There's better to be had, but the better it is, the harder it is to come by."

Gus rocked back a little on his heels and tilted his hat a bit, and said, "So, where are you all from? You don't look like you're from around here, if you'll pardon."

"We're from the Shire," said Pippin, throwing his arm lightly across Merry's shoulders. "Though I don't suppose you'll have heard of that. Our overly tall friend there is Legolas, from Mirkwood, and Gimli has travelled from the Lonely Mountain, Erebor."

Gus frowned, and glanced at Chip, who was examining the leaves of a nearby tree. "Wow. That's - a lot prettier bunch of names than Chicago and Tulsa and New Washington."

"Shi-kah-go," said Pippin, his brow furrowing a little, and then he grinned. "Why, I think that's a lovely name. Is that your home?"

Gus laughed. "Well, not for a long time now, but used to be. Chip's a Tulsa boy originally, but we're all in New Washington now."

"Well, we are grateful for the aid you brought to Gondor," said Legolas, watching Chip where he had bent to examine a small, white, star-shaped flower. "If you admire the gardens here," he said, "perhaps one day you might visit my home, or perhaps Imladris, for this is but a small thing compared to their beauty."

"Hmm?" Chip glanced up and caught the Elf's gaze, and for a moment he seemed transfixed. Then, "Oh - well, I don't know we'll be here that long," he said, sitting back on the paving stones and crossing his legs. "We have to deal with a wizard of our own, back home. In fact, we're hoping you all might see your way clear to return our little favor, once you get this Big Bad taken care of."

Legolas' expression remained neutral. "If we do," he said, "then perhaps we may. But I wonder," and he followed Chip with his eyes as the man stood again and moved to look out over the fields below. "You bring terrible weapons, and your people wield them with skill and fervor. I am surprised, then, you would feel you need our help, for it would seem you have great power in your world."

Chip and Gus laughed, and Maggie tried to suppress a grin. "I wish it were that simple," said Chip, not turning to face the Elf. "We may have some weapons, but we don't have the power, not really."

"Well, who does?" asked Gimli.

"Who knows?" Gus replied.

"'The people,' they claim," said Chip, seating himself on the wall next to Merry. He closed his eyes and raised his face to the sunlight. "But the people didn't take it," he went on, eyes still closed, "and now the politicians use it for their own ends."

"Not all of them," said Maggie. "Some are good people. A lot of them are."

"Not enough," said Gus. "Do you have politicians here?" he asked.

Legolas' laughter was bright, and he replied, "Does not every land? Politicians, kings, councils and soldiers."

"Well, at any rate," said Chip, "now we know it's that damned wizard who's responsible for a lot of it, maybe we can get rid of him and get to work making things right again."

"If it's not too late."

"Gus, don't be such a damned pessimist," said Chip, tossing a pebble from the wall at the tall man. It bounced off his hat with a tiny sound, and Gus chuckled.

"I prefer to think I'm a realist," he said.

"And you believe the wizard is Saruman?" asked Merry.

"Maybe. We're pretty sure."

"But we left Saruman alive at Isengard," Merry said, concern furrowing his brow. "Should we not have slain him, and maybe saved your world from him before he had the chance to do so much damage?"

Maggie shrugged. "We don't know whether any of us would even exist if not for - well, for the way the world is."

"Or if we did exist, whether we'd be any better off. Maybe something worse would have happened if not for him."

"Better the devil you know," said Gus. "At least we understand the world we're in now."

"But," said Merry, still puzzled, "if slaying Saruman here, in our time, would mean he'd never be in your time, wouldn't that mean that whatever world you'd go back to would be the one that would have always been, and you'd understand it just as well?"

"Maybe," said Chip. "Or maybe none of us would have ever been born."

"It all makes my head swim," said Maggie. "All I know is, I don't want to take the risk of making me and everyone I love never have existed."

"Even though it means so much suffering for so many others?" asked Legolas gently, but his eyes were piercing.

She glanced at him, hoping she hid her sudden anger. "We don't know what kind of suffering there would have been," she said, "if not for Sorrow. It's not like there's only ever one bad thing that can happen in a place, y'know, and there's no way to know what would have been better or worse except to risk it. Right now, my friends are alive, and they're my friends. That's what I know. That's what I want to keep. Regardless."

Legolas inclined his head. "It is understandable, friend," he said. "I, too, would keep friends alive, and friends." He glanced over his shoulder at the fields below, where finally men were emerging from Aragorn's tent. "The council is over, it seems. I wonder what word we shall have of the battles to come."

After a time, Chip and Gus left to talk with Janet, and Merry and Pippin returned to Merry's room so the still-weary Hobbit could rest. Maggie leaned on the stone wall beside Gimli, Legolas standing on the Dwarf's other side, all three looking out over the Pelennor. Below, the tents billowed softly in the breeze.

"This stone city is not to my liking," the Elf murmured.

"Much isn't to your liking," said Maggie irritably, and Legolas looked at her. She winced inwardly, realizing she was going to have to follow through now. "I heard y'all, earlier," she said. "I shouldn't have listened, I know, but I did, and I heard what you said about Boromir." She fixed him with a hard gaze. "I care about you, Legolas, I really do," she said, trying to keep her tone even, "and I like you, and I'm - so grateful to you for how kind you've been to me. But you really made me mad sometimes." She hesitated when he didn't speak, but only regarded her with calm eyes. Finally she said, "Why were you so quick to tell me I should 'speak my heart' to him if that's what you think of him?"

Legolas didn't answer at first, and Gimli said, "Now, lass, don't be so quick with your temper when you've heard only a piece of your friend's mind on the matter."

"Well it's not just this," she answered, frowning. "It seems like every time Boromir so much as blinks, Legolas is reminding him who's going to be king. It's - well, it's rude. Just because Aragorn's supposed to be descended from some centuries dead king doesn't mean Boromir should shut the fuck up and do whatever he says."

"Does it not?" came Faramir's voice from behind them and she spun around to see him smiling gently at her as Gimli and Legolas also turned. "Well, fealty may take many forms," he said mildly, in answer to his own question. "Forgive me - I do not mean to intrude, but the day is bright, and I was so long in shadow. When your voices reached me, I thought it best to make my presence known."

"Should you even be out of bed?" asked Maggie, going to his side, and he chuckled.

"Perhaps not," he said, "yet to lie in bed on such a day seems a terrible waste of it."

"You would be the brother of Boromir," said Gimli then as Maggie drew Faramir to the wall and made him sit, fussing over him a little to hide her nerves. "As like as twin jewels carved from one stone, you are. Faramir, have I guessed aright?"

"You have," said Faramir with a smile. "And you would be Gimli, Glóin's son, from Erebor, and King Thranduil's son, Legolas, of Mirkwood, yes? My brother has spoken of you both, with great admiration."

"Boromir is a fine man," said Legolas. "And a valiant warrior."

"He is indeed," said Faramir, turning his gaze towards the Anduin. "Though I perceive you are not entirely approving of his turn of mind. It is understandable," he went on, forestalling whatever Legolas might have answered. "He has never had great success at hiding his thoughts, particularly from one who has as much of his faith as Aragorn does. If he doubts the king, then it is sure the king knows it." He turned his gaze to the Elf then, still mild, a smile still on his finely-drawn lips. "You have known Aragorn for long?"

"No longer than has Boromir," said Legolas, "though he has the faith of my people."

Faramir nodded. "'Estel,' you call him. Hope. Well, he seems a fine man, and a strong leader to walk the Paths of the Dead and bring any with him at all, to say nothing of the force which aided us on the Pelennor."

"That he is," said Gimli. "As fine a man and as fine a warrior as could be asked for in a king."

"That is good to hear," said Faramir, "though I did not doubt it." His gaze turned back towards the Anduin. "Boromir has told me a great deal of Aragorn, and of the journey you passed together."

Gimli and Legolas glanced at each other, and Gimli said, "It was a hard journey, for all of us."

"Indeed it was," said Faramir.

"Has he told you how hard?" asked Legolas, and Faramir faced him, clear grey eyes meeting ancient Elven ones like the waters of the Anduin meeting the great sea, pressing and mingling in currents of meaning invisible to any outside them.

"He has," said Faramir, not dropping his eyes from the Elf's, but smiling faintly.

They gazed at each other for a long moment, and Legolas said softly, "And you do not doubt him?"

"I know my brother," said Faramir. "Perhaps better than my brother knows himself. I do not doubt him."

There was another long pause, the Man and Elf regarding each other, and Maggie felt the tension in the air rise with Gimli's discomfort. She scowled, glancing out towards the tents and saying, "Good lord, stop dancing around it. He tried to take the ring, fine, you all know it, I know it, Aragorn knows it - " She turned back to find Legolas and Faramir looking at her, their expressions startled. "Well," she said, dropping her gaze, "you just got all mystical and secretive about this friggin' elephant in the living room, y'know? Christ. Just say it. 'Boromir tried to take the ring and I don't trust him.'"

"Boromir tried to take the ring," said Legolas mildly, "but that is not why I do not trust him."

"Then why?"

"Because he is a Man, and Denethor's son."

"As am I," said Faramir, his tone edged.

"Aye, you are," Legolas replied, turning to him, "but you have the faith of Mithrandir, and so you have mine."

"And my brother has my faith in turn," said Faramir.

"Bonds of blood may blind us to the faults of those we love."

"As may bonds of loyalty," Faramir replied. "Aragorn has your people's faith, as does Mithrandir; I have Mithrandir's faith, and he and Boromir have mine; I have your faith, through Mithrandir, and Aragorn has it through your people; and you have my faith if Mithrandir would give it. So it would seem we are all faithful, and mayhap all blind, but because we are all faithful, there should be naught to come between us, and you should give my brother your faith for the faith Mithrandir must bring from me."

A brief pause, and then Legolas laughed lightly. "You have an interesting mind, Faramir son of Denethor."

Faramir smiled. "I only suggest that neither blood, nor loyalty alone, is a reason for either faith, or doubt."

"Then what," asked Legolas, "if not neither blood nor loyalty?"

"If loyalty is granted through knowledge of another, then faith indeed should come with it," he answered. "But I would not think to tell another how much knowledge he might need for loyalty to be granted. Nor would I say that loyalty granted for blood alone is reason enough for faith, though faith need not always accompany loyalty - it will be earned in time, if that loyalty is not misplaced."

"Come, friends," said Gimli then."I feel my poor head start to ache from these convolutions. I would know what has passed among the commanders who forge our path, for that, at least, I warrant leads straight. Legolas, shall we seek out the captains and discover what part we may yet play here?"

After they'd gone, Maggie sat quietly beside Faramir on the wall. "So how are you feeling?" she asked him finally.

He didn't speak for a moment, then said, "I could not help but overhear your question to the Elf. He never answered you."

She looked away, across the gardens. "Well, I didn't really expect him to."

"So it is to him that I owe my brother's happiness?" and he glanced at her, smiling.

She laughed. "Oh, I doubt it," she said. "Boromir likes me well enough, but I don't think I'm responsible for his happiness. Maybe you are, now you're back," and she pressed his hand briefly.

"Do not underestimate yourself," he said softly, "nor Legolas Greenleaf. He may doubt Boromir, but he does not wish to, and it may be he hoped for a softening of my brother's heart, if you were to win his affections. And it may be he was right."

Maggie shook her head. "He never seemed to have much of a hard heart, to me," she replied.

Faramir chuckled. "Nor to me, yet I have known him all my life, and have ever been his 'little' brother, and you, lady, have met him when his heart was most troubled, and most open to softening."

"So, he was with them, down there on the field?" she asked.

"He was."

"What were they talking about?"

"How best to aid the ringbearer, I believe," he answered, "if the ringbearer might still be aided."

She looked at him, startled. "They're not talking about going to find him, are they?"

Shaking his head, he replied, "No, I am certain not. For the ringbearer is beyond finding, I think. I met him 'ere I returned to Minas Tirith," he said. "The ringbearer and his man Samwise. They have gone into the depths of Mordor by now, for I could not deter him from the path he had chosen, nor, it seems now, should I have." He sighed. "There is more strength in those small ones than a Man might perceive, if he only looked and did not see."

She waited for him to continue, and when he didn't, said, "What did they say?"

He glanced at her and smiled. "You look to tell if they maligned my brother, do you? Well, they did not," he said. "They did tell me of what passed between Frodo and Boromir, but they also spoke well of him, and Frodo called him friend," and Faramir chuckled, "and I think not solely because I, his brother, had a company of men at my command, and the two Halflings alone in the wilderness."

She laughed. "Yeah, that might have given them pause about talking too much trash about him. So," she went on after a moment, "what do you think they'll do?"

Faramir hesitated, then said, "I cannot say, for it may depend on whose counsel holds sway. Minas Tirith must be defended, and Boromir will wish for men to remain here, to guard her walls and people. But I believe we must draw the Enemy's eye outside his own walls, and away from where the ringbearer may travel, if he yet lives and is free."

"Draw him out how?"

"A feint," said Faramir. "An army of Men, with Elessar at its head, to cause him to wonder if the king has taken the One Ring for his own, and comes now to conquer."

"Ah," said Maggie, paling. "A feint. They'd have to go _there._ Fuck."

Faramir glanced at her. "My brother has mentioned your odd language," he said, "and that it seems so close to ours, and yet so different, yet this is the first of your words for which I can find no notion of what it may mean, nor does the context in which you use it help me make sense of it."

"Ah," she said again, and blushed. "It's - um." And she hesitated. "It's vulgar. Don't use it." He chuckled, and she went on, "It's mostly just an epithet, and I'm not actually willing to tell you what it means, but I think I may not say it as much anymore, now that you mention it."

"Very well," he said, smiling. "I will not press you." 

He put a hand to his face then, and Maggie touched his arm. "You okay?" she asked.

"I am well enough," he replied, "but perhaps the healers were right when they suggested I not leave my bed just yet."

Her eyes widened, and Maggie said, "They told you to stay in bed and you ignored them? Good god. Just like a man, 'walk it off,'" and standing up she held out her hand to him. "We're getting you back to bed."

They met Boromir as he was coming out of Faramir's room and casting about the hallway. "Ah," he said, coming forward and slipping his arm under Faramir's shoulders. "I wondered if I should have left a guard with you," he said. "I see now I was wrong not to have," but his tone was playful, and Faramir smiled.

"I could not linger abed on such a day, after so long a night," he answered. "And look, I found your lady in the gardens, and she has looked after me kindly."

"For that I thank her," said Boromir, grinning. "She is ever looking after the sons of the Steward, it seems."

"My pleasure," said Maggie, and followed them into Faramir's room, where Faramir sat gingerly on the edge of the bed before reclining against the pillows that Boromir had placed behind him.

"So what's the scoop?" she asked then. "Did y'all decide what to do?"

Boromir nodded. "The main company of Rohirrim who are still horsed and can fight - some three thousands - shall guard the West Road, and some small number here in the City to guard it against what may pass through, since our Gate is broken. And seven thousands will ride to the Black Gate, to challenge battle and distract the Eye from the ringbearer, if he yet walks free. Mithrandir was of your mind, brother," he said, meeting Faramir's gaze. "Though even without the counsel of Imrahil and myself, I think neither he nor Aragorn would have left the City all unmanned. Though I cannot say with certainty."

"You know it to be true," said Faramir gently. "None would wish to return home to ruin, no matter how great our victory." 

"If such we win."

"What about you?" asked Maggie, keeping her voice carefully neutral. "Are you going with them, or staying here?"

"I ride with Aragorn," he said, and turned to Faramir. "I have spoken with our father, and he has passed the rod of Stewards to me."

Faramir's glance was worried. "Tell me how he fares, our father," he said.

Boromir frowned. "I hardly know how to. He is - " and he hesitated. "He is weary. He spoke of Thorongil as though it were only days since they were both in their youth, and Denethor struggling against him for Ecthelion's regard. He spoke of Mardil, and cursed him for not keeping Eärnur back, and cursed Eärnur for abandoning his people." Boromir's gaze fell to where his hands rested in his lap, their trembling the only sign of his fatigue. "I think our father rues that ever he was Steward, Faramir," he said finally. "He offered me the rod as though it were a doom he thrust upon me."

Faramir took his brother's hands in his, stilling them, and their eyes met. After a moment, Faramir touched Boromir's face, fingertips gentle on the bruise that still lay there. "He will return to us, Boromir," he said. "Be sure of it. Denethor is as strong as this City, as strong as Gondor."

"He is," said Boromir. "I do fear for him, though."

"You keep him from the palantír?"

"I do, though he gives little sign of wishing for it."

Faramir nodded. "He will return to us," he said firmly.

Boromir hesitated, then said, "I know you have not had the easiest friendship with our father, but I would have you see him, when you can."

Faramir looked doubtful. "If you wish it, I will," he said.

"Um," and Maggie stood, "I should go. Let you two talk." She started towards the door, but Faramir stopped her.

"No, lady, you need not leave. There is nothing in this that I would not share with one so dear to my brother, and there are things yet that must be decided, for which we may need your presence. I would not have you wait in the hall as a servant." 

She glanced at Boromir, but he didn't dispute his brother, so she seated herself again, feeling more than a little out of place.

"I will see him if you wish it," Faramir continued, turning to Boromir, "but I have been more often a goad to him than a balm."

"No longer," said Boromir. Looking up, he caught Faramir's gaze and held it. "He regrets you," he said softly. "He regrets his harshness."

"What has he said?" asked Faramir.

"He says nothing outright," Boromir answered, "but it is everywhere in his eyes, in his voice when he speaks of us two. He - he spoke of when we were children," he said, "and of when our mother died. Did you know he almost sent us away, then?" Faramir shook his head. "Aye," said Boromir, nodding. "He thought to send us to Dol Amroth, or if not the two of us, then you at least. He said he felt too bereft without Finduilas, and - " and he hesitated again, then finished, "he feared he would do what he did. He wished us to have a gentler childhood than he gave us, but he said he could not bear to be parted from us. Not with her loss so near." He looked at Faramir. "I think he would make up for that time, if he can."

Faramir shook his head, and when he spoke, his voice was thick. "There is nothing to make up," he said. "Denethor has always had my love."

"And you his," said Boromir, "but I think he would show you now. I think he would like to know you, at last. Soon, while there is time."

"You fear defeat by Sauron," said Faramir softly.

Boromir hesitated, then said, "I do not know what the future will bring, but - see him, Faramir."

A moment's hesitation. "I will."

Boromir nodded. "I leave in two days time with the army of the West. I would put the City in your keeping, brother."

Faramir shook his head. "I can scarce spend an hour in the gardens without I become too weary to stand," he said. "A poor captain will I make if the City is attacked."

"But a fine Steward," said Boromir, "and you will not be without aid. I would leave Beran here, to be your second as he has been mine, if you would have him. Húrin of the Keys will be with you as well, but Beran knows the men who will guard the walls, and you have his loyalty as you have mine. He is a good man."

"I know it," said Faramir, a smile ghosting about his lips, and Maggie wondered if he was thinking of his conversation with Legolas. "And I know you will do as seems best to you."

"Does it seem ill to you?" Boromir asked.

Faramir hesitated. "I would keep the City for you," he said finally. "You are my Steward, and I would do your will."

"I would know _your_ will, Faramir. That is my will."

After a pause, Faramir said softly, "My will is that you should ride with your king, and my will is that you remain here, for I have been without you too long already, but he has need of you now. And you of him, as well." Boromir said nothing, watching his brother with keen eyes. "Boromir," he said at last, "Aragorn is Elendil's heir. This is the king for whom the Stewards have held Gondor in trust. But you - you need to see him proven." He shook his head, frowning. "We spoke of Thorongil when you came this morning, and of the proof Aragorn's past would give us of his fitness to rule, but Thorongil is of our grandfather's time. I know you, my brother. You need proof you can see, not some story from a man who died 'ere you were old enough to fathom what he told us. Do not scowl so," he said with a smile. "I mean no ill. You have ever been the practical one, who sees what is in front of you, believes what you can touch, and taste, wound or heal. You are rooted in the world, Boromir, in the world as it is. And I would have you see for yourself whether this man is one to whom we can give our people."

After a moment, Boromir nodded. "I will go," he said. "And I will return, as well, whatever the outcome at the Enemy's gate."

"Well," said Maggie, "I'm coming with you."

As one they turned to her, grey eyes sharp, and as one, replied, "No, you are not."

She crossed her arms. "I am."

"No."

"Gonna tie me up again?" she asked archly.

Faramir turned to Boromir. "You bound her?"

"I did not," he said, scowling. "Haerendil did. But I would have - she would have come to Osgiliath with me if someone had not."

"Ah." He turned back to Maggie. "I would have bound you as well."

"Who knew the Steward raised such pervy sons?" she muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing. Forget it. I'm going."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes!"

"Boromir, get the rope."

"Pervs."

"What?"

"Nothing. Forget it. I'm going."

"Valar protect us," said Faramir. "You are _not_."

"You still believe I should keep this one?"

"I begin to doubt it."

"Hey!"

Just then the door opened, and Pippin stepped in. "Arguing already, and they haven't even wed. I could hear you three all the way down the hall!"

"Well tell them to stop ordering me around, then," said Maggie irritably.

"We have only your interests at heart, love," said Boromir, and she started to round on him but was brought up short by the look on his face, grave, and serious. "This - " and he hesitated, glancing at Faramir. "This is not a battle we expect to win, nor from which we expect many to return."

"All the more reason for me to -"

" -stay," finished Faramir for her. 

"I can help."

"None can help," said Boromir, "but to give proof to our bluff, and provide fodder for the Enemy's swords."

"Then don't you go either," she said, her heart beating increasingly fast, and a vague feeling of panic rising through her. "You're the Steward now, you can't go. Think of Mardil, and Eärnur."

"Eärnur rode to a fight he expected to win," said Boromir.

"And," Faramir added, "for no better reason than pride. This is -"

"Pride," said Maggie angrily. "You're just going because - because - " and she shook her head, groping for words. "Hell. Look, you're the Steward," she repeated. "You can't go."

Pippin came to stand beside her, saying, "She has a point, Boromir. You do rule the City for the time - you rule Gondor for the time. You are not easily spared."

Boromir smiled. "More easily than you think, Master Peregrin."

"Well not by me!" Maggie said, her voice almost a shout. Pippin touched her arm and she took his hand, glad for someone to hold onto while her lover so casually talked about becoming cannon fodder. His hand was strong in hers.

"Nor by me," Faramir murmured.

Boromir lowered his head, and Maggie instantly regretted yelling, but she couldn't take it back. When he raised his eyes to hers, though, his gaze was as clear and open as if they were having a pleasant conversation over tea. "Maggie," he said finally, "I am Steward by accident of birth, as Aragorn is heir. There are those here who are better suited than I to rule the City, and Gondor. But there are none who can be me for my men. Would you have me send them to their deaths while I stay safe behind a title I carry only because Faramir was born second? Would you do such a thing, were these your men?"

She opened her mouth to speak, then hesitated, thinking of Mira, and the others. Finally she dropped her gaze. "Right then," she said bitterly. "So tell me again why I can't go too?"

There was a pause before both the Steward's sons began to answer at once, but Pippin cut them off, saying quietly, "Maggie, stay." She heard something in his voice that drew her eyes to his, and she saw grief deep within them. "Must all our friends die in that black land?" he asked sadly. "Stay here with Merry, for I do ride with the company, to represent the Shire, and I would feel easier in my heart if I knew you sat with my cousin, when I cannot."

The press of his hand in hers drew her back from her own fear, and into the present. Boromir, Faramir, Pippin, Merry. Mira, her friends. She nodded. "All right," she said finally. "I'll stay."

"Will your companions help to defend the City, if it is attacked?" asked Boromir.

She thought about that. "I don't know," she said finally. "We're out of ammo, for one thing. Janet can take them home whenever they want, but they - " and she raised her eyes to his. "They really expect help with Sorrow now. I'm not sure they're going to be interested in helping out more until they have some assurances they'll get the favour returned."

Boromir nodded. "I cannot give them such assurances," he said, "for I know not whether any will remain to help, nor, if any do, whether they would be willing."

"If you're Steward," she began, but trailed off.

"If I am Steward," he said, "then I must decide whether to accept Aragorn's claim," and at that, Maggie felt Pippin's hand clench in hers, only slightly, but she didn't turn to him. "If I do," Boromir went on, "then perhaps Mithrandir will be able to come to your world and aid you; if not, then I do not believe Gondor will be in meet position to help any but herself, and that Gandalf will be," and he hesitated, then finished wryly, "busy with other pursuits."

"Such as helping Aragorn take Gondor by force," she muttered.

"Perhaps. Or perhaps merely convincing me that I have acted wrongly. I do not know what Aragorn would do were I to reject his line."

Pippin fixed Boromir with a hard gaze. "Reject him?" he said. "Boromir, he is Elendil's heir."

"So I have been told," the Man answered, "repeatedly," annoyance colouring his voice. "But his line is descended through Isildur, and that claim was rejected."

Faramir chuckled. "So you have pointed out, brother," he said. "Repeatedly." Irritation flashed in Boromir's grey eyes, but it faded quickly. "There is no law," Faramir went on, "that says we may not revisit that decision."

"Well, Faramir," he said finally, his voice tired and sad, "perhaps I will not return from this battle, and the decision will be yours alone," and Faramir paled slightly.

"Boromir," said Pippin sharply, "do you mean to be so unkind?"

Startled, Boromir met his gaze and shook his head. "No, I do not. I am sorry. Weariness lets my words escape me."

Faramir took Boromir's hand, but his grip was not gentle, nor were his eyes. "I would not have your very thoughts be so cruel, to yourself or to me," he said, "regardless of whether you speak them. You have said you will return, and I will expect it. Do not break your word to me, nor think I would take your place."

"I have said I am weary," Boromir answered, not reclaiming his hand but bringing the other to his face. "Forgive me."

Faramir smiled, and his grip eased somewhat as he said lightly, "If you return, I shall," but Boromir raised stricken eyes to his.

"Do not jest, Faramir," he said seriously. "For all my promises, my fate in this may not be under my own command."

Faramir frowned gently. "You know I would never withhold my love from you," he said, "nor my forgiveness, though there is naught to forgive."

"There is much to forgive," he said quietly. "But thank you."


	16. Two Days' Time

I don't own any part of LOTR and I'm certainly making no money from this, but I'm more grateful to Mr. Tolkien than I can say for creating such a rich world that so many people want to engage with it themselves. [See previous chapters for other disclaimers and notes.]

**Author's note:** Revisions have been made to chapters twelve and fifteen. Although neither set of edits affect the direction of the story, I think they have improved it, and would be grateful if readers were interested in having a look.

**An End To Innocence**

**Chapter Sixteen: Two Days' Time**

Two days' time. Two days' time and he would ride away to what he expected would be his death.

How was she supposed to accept this? Pippin did. Even Faramir. How? 

Maggie sat in the gardens of the Houses of Healing, oblivious to everything around her, her brow furrowed, chewing on her thumb. Her mouth was dry, her mind raced, and she felt like she'd been kicked in the stomach. 

There had to be something she could do. 

Two days' time. 

She'd promised to stay behind. Now, not half an hour later, she couldn't understand why. Pippin had asked her to, but Pippin was going, and he wasn't even full-grown for a Hobbit yet. Her friends? They'd be safe enough in Minas Tirith, and Janet could take them home if things got bad.

There was the thing about not wanting to die. But sitting here now, her own death didn't seem even a remote possibility.

None of this seemed a remote possibility. Her own world, this world, both seemed equally impossible, and the only real thing was that Boromir existed and that he loved her. No drama, no rants about psycho ex-girlfriends, no mixed signals or "I love you but things are too weird for us to be together" speeches - though for once that argument might have actually made sense. He just loved her. It was in every touch, every glance. Everything was impossible, and nothing seemed real except for him.

And in two days' time he was leaving. There _had_ to be something she could do. But what? what could she possibly offer him that would convince him to stay?

Nothing. There was nothing. He loved her, but this was his country, his land, his home. His people. If she could compete with that, make him leave and abandon them.... If she could do that, she wouldn't have wanted him.

Slowly, sounds began to penetrate her awareness, and she looked around to see where they came from. Nearby, a woman knelt in front of a little patch of earth, a tray beside her with several small plants on it, their root balls wrapped in what looked to Maggie like cheesecloth. As Maggie watched, the woman reached into the tray and removed one of the plants, unwrapped the cloth, being careful not to lose the dirt that clung to the roots, and tenderly placed the plant into the first of the small holes she'd dug. Maggie could smell the earth, its fresh, loamy scent.

The woman glanced up, catching her gaze, and smiled. "Athelas," she said. "When it proved such an effective cure, the herbmaster sent us door to door throughout the City to find it growing, and we came back with these five plants." She held one out to Maggie. "Come and smell," she said. "'Tis a lovely fragrance."

Maggie moved to kneel beside the woman and cupped her hands around the proffered plant, inhaling the scent of earth and grass and new green leaves, the willow in her grandmother's backyard, the smell of childhood and safety. Sitting back, she watched as the woman finished planting all five, carefully patted the earth into place around them, wet it with water from a can she'd brought; continued to sit there on the flagstones, even after the woman had gathered up her tools and gone.

She didn't have anything that would make Boromir stay, but she did have something that might make other people come. The question was whether she could part with it. She stood, finally, and moved to the wall, looked out over the Pelennor, looked at the Anduin glinting in the sunlight. They still had to deal with Sorrow - she couldn't abandon her own world so completely. But each time she tried to imagine going home and staying, giving this up, giving _him_ up, for that bleak world of ash and violence and apathy, ex-lovers and power struggles and machinations she sometimes barely managed to keep ahead of, she felt sick, and pale. She couldn't do it. And she couldn't let him leave her here in this stone city, either, while he rode towards death.

Twenty minutes later she'd spoken with Janet, had found Chip, and had dragged him into an antechamber where they stood arguing in low, heated tones.

"Goddamn it, if you want to save him, do something practical! Don't fucking go off _with_ him - bring him back with us!"

"He'd never leave here, Chip," Maggie replied with a scowl. "Come on, help me out."

"Never leave here?" Chip said. "I never said you should give him a choice."

Maggie raised an eyebrow. "What - kidnap him?"

Chip shrugged. "It's safer back home than it is here, looks like. And hey, he's a bad-ass warrior guy - maybe he could help us."

She laughed. "He'd kill us all to get back here, Chip, don't doubt it."

"Even you?"

She shook her head sadly. "Chip, if I did something like that.... Yeah, even me, if he had to, and I'd hardly blame him."

"Dunshay," he said quietly, with a wry smile. "Lord. What happened to the pragmatist I met two days ago?" 

"She's right here," Maggie replied, "doing the best she can."

Chip hesitated, looking at his hands. "What's in it for me?" he asked finally.

"I've got a farm in Iowa," she said, and Chip raised his eyes to hers, his expression inscrutable.

"A farm?" he said. "You have land?"

She nodded. "I inherited it when my grandmother died."

"You're offering it to me?"

Shaking her head, she said, "Not so simple as that."

"What then?"

"I'll sell it, and for every volunteer you get eleven thousand dollars. Do what you want with that - pay 'em, buy weapons, buy a congressman, I don't care."

"Eleven thousand?" he said, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Make it fifteen."

"Twelve."

"They're good people, Maggie," he said, "and you're saying they may not come back."

She hesitated. "I know, Chip. But the more of them come and the better armed they are, the more likely they will." Another pause. "Thirteen."

"You're making us mercenaries," he said.

"Pragmatists," she replied.

"Fourteen."

"Thirteen five."

"Thirteen eight."

"I can't do it," she said. "Thirteen five is as high as I can go."

He considered. "Who pays for the ammunition?"

"I need you to front that," she said, "but I can pay for it when I sell the land."

He shook his head, frowning, and she opened her mouth to try to change his mind, but before she could speak he said, "You'd really do that? sell land for this place?"

"Yeah," she said. "I would."

"Why didn't you tell me about this when we first got here?" he asked with a half-smile.

She laughed. "I didn't need to," she said. "You'd already agreed to help."

"But how have you held on to it all this time?" he asked. "God, things have sucked so bad and you've been sitting on land?"

She nodded. "I could have sold it," she said, "yeah. But the value just kept going up, and there's a little income from it. Made more sense to keep it and barely get by than it did to sell it and lose future profits."

"That's not what I meant," he said. "I meant why the fuck have you been living in New Washington if you had a farm you could go to?"

Startled by the question, she shrugged and replied, "New Washington was my home. I had friends there. Responsibilities. And nothing in Iowa but a farm I don't know how to work anyway." She laughed, and shook her head. "All I could have done was asked the tenants to let me live in the spare room," she said. "They would have, but what would I have done with myself? Watched the corn grow?"

"Lived someplace where there's not a murder on every street corner," he answered. "What would it matter what else you'd do?"

She chuckled. "You exaggerate. It's only on, oh, every third street corner, I think, at most. And it'd matter. It'll all come to Iowa eventually anyway, and everywhere else."

Chip didn't say anything for a long moment, looking out the window of the antechamber. Finally he turned back to her. "Are you lying to me?"

"No," she said, "I'm not lying. While you get the equipment, I'll come and get the paperwork dealt with. There's been a standing offer on it from a big corporate outfit that owns the land around it, so the money'll be yours before we even come back. You might want to give someone power of attorney or something in case you don't live through this little expedition."

He laughed. "I'll be giving it to the guy I'm getting the equipment from, I imagine," he said. "We can work out the details when we're there. I'll send Michael and Gus to deal with getting the equipment and you and I will go see your lawyer together." He hesitated, then said cautiously, "So you're not even going to make me wait until after the fight? How do you know I won't double-cross you, and not bring 'em, or take 'em all home before the fighting starts?"

"It's the dying thing," she said. "If I die here, how'll you get paid? And you know I'll kill you - or someone else will - if you double-cross me," she finished with a smile.

He laughed. "Yeah. And same to you." His eyes caught hers, and his smile faded. "So, you're not planning on coming back from here, are you?"

She didn't answer at first, then said, "There's still Sorrow. I'll be back long enough to help deal with him."

"You're taking a hell of a risk, staying," he said.

She looked away. "Well, yeah. I know."

After a moment, Chip said, "The value keeps going up? and there's income?"

She nodded. "Not much. Maybe nine thousand dollars a year in good years. Maybe five in bad. After taxes."

He paused, considering. "Then give it to me outright."

Startled, her eyes narrowed and she looked at him strangely. "You want to own it?"

He nodded. "Land, Dunshay," he said. "It's - " and he looked around. "You've kept it all this time, and you're not wrong. You want my soldiers, give me the land. I can take a loan out on it if we need the money, but we'll have a place we can get to if we have to. You won't need the money - you'll be here."

She paused. She'd planned to convert dollars into something useful here, something she could sell, but the idea of the land staying whole, even if not hers, tugged at her. "Conditions, then," she said finally. "Keep the same management, and the same tenants. Let them keep working it."

He frowned. "They would have had to go anyway when you sold it."

"But now I'm not selling it," she said. "They're good - you won't find better, so you might as well keep them. And if I do come back, you've gotta let me live there, reasonable rent, if I want to."

He laughed. "If you come back and want to, you can live there free of charge. It's in Iowa - it's not like you're gonna be sharing my bathroom." He shook his head, smiling, and said, "Done. You've got your equipment, and your soldiers. Your friends are going to be pissed, though."

"Yeah," she said, smiling ruefully. "All of them."

She looked for Boromir all the way from the Citadel to the Gate - or rather, where the Gate used to be - but couldn't find him. About a mile out across the Pelennor she saw the tents of Aragorn and his entourage, and hesitated. She knew Boromir would be angry if she went to Aragorn first, but maybe he was already out there. And although she tried to pretend it wasn't her reason for going, she thought Aragorn would be easier to convince. She looked around. The stables on the Sixth Circle had been empty, and she didn't know where there might be others. After a moment, she struck out across the field.

The field itself was still a mess, trampled and torn, but the sky was blue, and the air was fresh, and cool - perfect early spring weather. She counted her steps silently as she walked, an old habit that kept her thoughts from straying too far. Here and there she'd slip in a patch of mud, but on the whole the walk was easy as long as she avoided the more broken ground. 'Eight twenty-_one_, eight twenty-_two_, eight twenty-_three_, eight twenty...,' and a little skip over a torn patch, '_four_, eight twenty-_five_, eight twenty - "

Hoofbeats, and she stopped and looked back to see a figure riding towards her. She turned as the rider drew close, and to her surprise and dismay, recognized Beran, slowing his mount to a walk as he reached her. She smiled brightly, trying to convey an ease she did not feel, her stomach knotting, remembering the throne room. She'd been walked in on before, but never under such fraught circumstances, and she hadn't been able to get a handle on what Beran had thought of the situation.

"Lady," he said, giving her a nod and an answering smile. "May I walk with you a while?"

Startled, she answered, "Of course."

Beran was a big man, heavily built but fluid in his movements, with the dark hair and grey eyes so common in Minas Tirith. His beard and hair were flecked with grey as well, and Maggie realized he was probably older than Boromir. She wondered if it ever caused problems between them, the elder taking orders from the younger. Beran leading the horse, they continued towards the tents.

"It's a gorgeous day," she said.

"Indeed, it is, and all the more for the shadow that has passed."

"Are you coming out here looking for someone?" she asked, then mentally kicked herself. Of course he was.

"I have an errand," Beran answered, "minor enough, but I dare say it is a pleasant thing on such a day to be sent on an errand across our Pelennor. And you? What brings you afoot this far?"

She smiled. "I need to see Aragorn, and Boromir if he's out here. But I couldn't find a horse."

He nodded. "They can be hard to come by," he replied, and she couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic."The Captain is in the City, though, taking counsel with his father. Though I believe the Ranger is indeed with his encampment." He paused. "Perhaps I should not speak of this," he went on, "but I wish you to know that your reputation is safe."

Startled, she said, "Thank you. I didn't doubt it - Boromir told me how much he trusts you." She hesitated, but then plunged ahead. "I don't want you to think badly of me, Beran," she said quickly. "It's not just some thing, between us - some meaningless fling. I wouldn't - " but she couldn't tell him that she wouldn't do that with someone she didn't love, because she had, and if she left here, and left him, she probably would again, though she would regret it afterwards. "I love him," she finished at last. "That's all."

There was a long pause before Beran spoke. "It is not my place to think well or ill of my captain's lady - of the Steward's lady - but I do not think ill of you. You are a soldier, that much is clear, and soldiers have rules that gentle society does not understand, and so is kept from knowing." He paused, then said, "No, I do not think ill of you, lady, nor will any speak ill of you in my hearing, unless you bring hurt to my captain."

She took a deep breath and said, "Thank you for that. I'll try not to." 

She'd learned long ago not to make promises she couldn't be sure of keeping.

They walked on in a companionable silence for a while, but the tents were still far and time was pressing. Just as Maggie was opening her mouth to ask Beran if he could give her a lift, she heard a beep, and then a phone rang nearby. 

Halting in her tracks, astonished, she looked for the source of the sound, and saw, clinging to a weed in a tuft of somehow unspoiled grass, a red-winged blackbird. It raised its head, its throat working fast as the familiar but long-forgotten song trilled through the air, and she held her breath with a sudden, vivid memory of home, of the farm, the vast windswept landscapes of midwest corn country and the short, gnarled, blackened trees like old men in the sun, and in their branches, these black birds slashed with crimson on the wing. The sweet smell of the air, the pungent soft odor of the cows the tenants kept. The grey kittens that had been there the last time she'd made it up to see the property, just old enough to be hunting bugs. Straight-tails, the woman who kept the house had called them, laughing. "Little straight-tails, but they'll be good rat-catchers when they're grown." Little straight-tails pouncing on beetles in the grass under the willow behind the house. Her grandmother's house.

She pressed a hand to her mouth, hard, biting, feeling a scream rise in her chest from the weight of everything she had just, in the space of half a dozen words, given up. Beran stopped as well, glancing first at Maggie and then at the place she gazed.

"Ah," he said, "a scarlet herald - harbingers of spring. Have you seen one before?"

She nodded sharply, the world swimming in the tears that flooded her eyes. "I - not here," she said at last, her voice breaking. "Home. Home." She lowered her hand and rubbed the flesh where her teeth had left their mark, relishing the sting that brought her back to herself.

"The Captain has told me you come from a place far distant," Beran said. "Another world entirely, perhaps, or another time. And yet, inexplicably, we share birds." She turned to him and he was looking at her, his expression gentle, then he turned back just as the bird took to the air, a flash of black and crimson in the sun. "'Tis the smallest things, sometimes," he said quietly, "which clutch our hearts the hardest. Come," he said then, gesturing her forward, "shall we ride for a time?"

Mounted behind him, Maggie tried to let the thud of the hooves on the turf work like counting steps, tried to forget herself in the roll and sway of the animal's gait, in the now-familiar scent of horse and man, but her tears didn't slow until the tents loomed close. 

Bringing his mount to a halt near Aragorn's encampment, he said as she dismounted, "Shall I fetch you back to the City when are finished with the Ranger?"

She looked around and said, "Well, I don't know how long I'll be, but - let's say if I'm around when you're getting ready to leave, I'll ride with you, and if not, don't worry. It's not too far to walk." She smiled up at him, "Thank you, though. For everything."

He gave her a quick smile back. "Your servant," he said, then turned the horse's head towards the tents of the King of the Mark, and cantered off.

She watched him go, then looked to where a guard stood outside the flap of the largest tent. Rubbing the heels of her hands across her eyes to try to clear away what she could of the wetness, she made her way through the broken ground to where he stood and said, "Is the - is Aragorn here?"

Wordlessly he ducked inside, and after a moment was back, holding the flap open for her to enter. Aragorn was at a small folding table, flanked by two identical Elves, deep in consideration of the maps that covered the table's surface and draped over the edges. He glanced up and smiled as she entered, and met her gaze, and for a moment she felt stricken. His eyes, always penetrating, seemed sharper than ever, and she felt as though he could see into her the same way Faramir could. But his eyes were mirrors turned outward, and she couldn't see anything of him in them. He was a stranger in the guise of one she hadn't known quite long enough to think of as a friend. An acquaintance become king. Or almost. And he was the man also called Thorongil, who had never told Boromir about his history, and who would in all likelihood take away from her lover everything he held dear, as surely as his father would have. She remembered what Boromir had said, days ago that seemed like months - had said he would surrender to Aragorn. _This, I will do. It is commanded of me by history, by blood, by my own treacherous heart._ Had the revelation about Thorongil changed that? _I will not have you drive us into civil war_ - but he hadn't said he wouldn't do so himself. She wished suddenly and violently that he were here.

"Maggie," said Aragorn, jerking her out of her thoughts, "come in. We have not had any chance to speak since - oh, since Isengard, I suppose. Please, sit," and he scooted a fourth chair back from the table and moved another set of maps off it to the floor. "These are my brothers Elladan, and Elrohir," he said as she seated herself, "the sons of Elrond, my foster-father. This is the lady I spoke of, Maggie Dunshay," he said to the Elves.

"It is a pleasure to meet you at last," said Elladan, and she tried to hold his gaze without flinching. "Aragorn has told us something of you," he went on, but she missed a certain amount of what he said, trying to accustom herself to his voice, and his eyes. She'd often been surprised by Legolas' beauty and strength, but overall she'd gotten used to it. She'd been so shaken and confused when she met him that it had taken her a little while to realize just how inhuman he really was, but these two - and _two_ of them! She felt overwhelmed. And while they seemed oblivious to their effect, Aragorn had clearly noted it, she thought, judging by the slight smile he wore as he watched her. She wondered if he knew how irritating he could be, and she wondered what he was thinking. Under his gaze, and caught in the music of the Elf's voice, she felt herself growing lightheaded, and thought she might drift away altogether. Beneath the table she dug her fingernails into the palm of her hand, hard, in the same spot she'd bitten earlier, and the slight pain brought her back into her body as Elladan finished, "...owe you some measure of gratitude for helping hold the City long enough for us to arrive."

"Oh," she said, "I think they would have held it without us, but we were glad to help."

"And you suffer a similar evil in this strange world you say you come from?" asked Elrohir.

She nodded. "It looks that way," she replied, noting that he'd said 'the world you _say_ you come from.'

They seemed to be waiting for her to continue, but now was not the time, she thought, to get into it. When the time did come, she wanted to be ready with arguments that would get her the help they needed - it wouldn't do her any good to sit chatting idly about it as though it were just an interesting fact about her world, like their shared birds. "So, you're from Imladris?" she said finally. "I hear it's beautiful."

Smiling, they allowed the subject change, and for a short time Elladan and Elrohir traded off telling her this and that about their home, until finally Elrohir said, "Of course, that was before Estel came to live with us."

"Yes, it has been in shambles ever since," Elladan finished with a small smile.

Aragorn laughed. "Enough, you two," he said, smiling broadly and turning to Maggie. "Believe nothing these ones say about me," and he threw an amused glance at his foster-brothers, whose expressions remained mild, but whose eyes crinkled with mirth. "Come, tell me what has passed since last we met."

"Oh," she said, "this and that. You know. We got here, the City was still standing. My friends came, and there was that unpleasantness with the siege. But things are good." She met his gaze. "I'm a little concerned about this plan you've got to ride into Mordor, though."

She couldn't read his expression. After a moment, he nodded to the Elves, who stood, Elrohir saying, "We must take our leave of you, lady. But perhaps we shall speak again - I would like to hear something of your home."

"Absolutely," she said, agreeable from long habit of making nice with people she didn't know but whose goodwill she needed. "I'd like that." And then they were gone, and she was alone with Aragorn.

They sat for a moment before Aragorn said gently, "I am the same man you met when you first arrived."

Puzzled, she said, "What do you mean?"

"You seem nervous," he answered. "I had not thought to inspire nervousness in you."

"Ah," and she nodded. "I'm scared as hell," she said, "that's probably what you're picking up on. And if I thought about it that far, you'd be part of it, I'm sure, but right now, I've got too many other things to be scared of." She had no intention of admitting to him that Aragorn-slash-Thorongil made her nervous indeed.

"Would it help you to speak of them?" he asked, and the compassion she heard in his voice brought sudden tears back to her throat, and she dug fingernails into the palm of her hand again to still them.

"I've talked with Chip and Janet," she said, steadying herself and ignoring his implicit offer, hauling her thoughts back to their present problem. "In return for some property I have at home, he's going to bring soldiers and weapons, and we're going to go with you into Mordor. Janet said she's well enough to get them here, though she said she'd like it if your wizard could help."

He smiled slightly. "I am not certain you understand the situation," he said. "We do not intend to defeat the Enemy there. We know we cannot."

"I know," she said, nodding. "Boromir explained it. It's a feint. But the better weapons we can bring might mean more of your cannon fodder comes home alive."

He looked at her for a long moment, and she worked not to drop her gaze. Finally, he said, "What property?"

"My grandmother's farm," she answered.

He shook his head. "No, lady, we cannot ask it of you."

"You're not asking," she said, "I'm telling you. This is what we're doing."

Another long silence, as he considered. "Does the Steward know?" he asked.

"Boromir?" she asked. "I couldn't find him."

"He will not approve."

"It's not his decision."

"What of your other companions?"

"Not theirs either."

"And what of me?" he asked.

"You tell me," she replied. "Can you stop me? And even if you can, I think you'd be an idiot if you did."

He smiled. "You do not mince words," he said. "Tell me of the weapons you intend to bring."

"Chip said there's a guy in New Washington who's been building an army," she began. "He's got everything Chip wants to bring. Big guns, too, not just the little stuff we had. Squad assault weapons, which won't be much good out there but we can leave a couple here at the gate to discourage anyone who wants to take advantage of the army's absence. Light armor weapons, shrapnel grenades, as well as the usual M16s and grenade launchers. Also some particularly nasty ammo - flechette rounds, incendiary rounds, dumdum bullets. The guy owes him," she said, "and he thinks he can get enough for quite a little assault."

"Light armor weapons?" said Aragorn.

She groped for a way to explain. "They're these - big shoulder-mounted tubes, basically," she said. "They fire rockets, which are - well, really destructive. Like grenades only a lot moreso." She hesitated, noting his puzzled gaze. "The light armor that the name refers to," she said, "isn't armor like what someone would wear. It's like armored vehicles, big steel wagons, sort of. Anyway," she said, "you can't fire those within twenty feet of a person, because of the flames that shoot out the back."

Aragorn raised an eyebrow. "Flames? for twenty feet to the rear?"

She nodded.

He leaned forward then, pulling one of the maps from the bottom of the stack and turning it to her. "This is the area before the Black Gate," he began, and for the next little while they talked strategies and positioning. Finally, Aragorn said, "I know the small weapons you bear are deadly," he said. "Tell me how these 'em sixteens' are different."

"Well, for one thing," she said, "they fire at a greater rate of speed. You can set them to fire three rounds at a burst, or to be fully automatic, but either way, they hold more ammo and go through it faster. Also, you can't shoot to wound with an M16. Not that you should try to with a pistol."

"No?"

She shook her head. "The standard M16 round is a tumbling round, which means it tumbles end over end, and if it hits a bone, it ricochets inside the target. You can hit someone in the leg and it could exit through their shoulder, tearing up everything in between. Even a crappy shot can be pretty sure of killing someone if he hits him."

"And these other three types of missile you mentioned,'" he said, his brows furrowing. "What did you call them? flechette, incendiary, and dumdum? Explain them."

"They're nasty," she said. "There are two kinds of flechette rounds, and I think they're both illegal, but it's not like it'd be legal for us to have any of this stuff anyway," and she shrugged. "So one's made up of tiny segments that slide apart on impact. You'll see an neat enough entrance wound, but exit wounds coming out all over the place. The other kind has thousands of these little metal darts, about about as long as my thumb," she said, idly tracing the lines on the map with her finger as Aragorn watched her. "They scatter over about a three hundred by one hundred meter area so they're good for hitting groups. The trick with those'll be if they're wearing hard armor, but they should be fine against chain mail or exposed skin. Plus," she said, cocking her head thoughtfully, "remember that it doesn't have to kill them, just take them down, out of commission. It's usually better to wound an enemy than to kill one, 'cause it takes six people to care for a wounded soldier and only two to deal with a dead one. At least, if they deal with their dead and wounded soldiers." She paused, considering. "Anyway, incendiary rounds," she went on, "have a chemical that ignites either on impact or on contact with the air, and continues to burn even after it strikes the target." Glancing up, she found that Aragorn's expression had become worried, and she continued cautiously.

"Dumdum bullets have these little -"

"You would use these on a living creature?" he asked gently, cutting her off.

She sat back. "Well, they'd be wasted on a dead one."

He shook his head, and said, "You seem much changed from the young woman who had never killed before she arrived in the forest near Parth Galen."

Maggie touched the Glock that rode at her right hip, its sister opposite on her left. Remembered spreading dirt and leaves over her sickness, remembered the heavy bodies that had seemed to bear her to the ground, though all were dead around her, and she untouched. Remembered the face of the man she'd killed at the breach, and though she tried, she found she couldn't recall the faces of any others after him. None she'd shot from the wall at Helm's Deep, none she'd helped push from the wall, none she'd shot from the walls of Minas Tirith. The realization was struck her like a blow, and she closed her eyes against a wave of dizziness that washed over her, and brought her hand to her mouth.

After a moment, Aragorn said softly, "There is cruelty in war beyond what you have seen, beyond even what you have offered to me. Tell me, lady," he said, and she looked at him. "Have you yourself seen the results of the weapons you would bring?"

She shook her head, lowering her gaze from his to look at her hand, at the raw skin where she'd bitten. She rubbed at the stinging redness there, and said, "No, I haven't. But does it matter?"

He shrugged. "To me?" he asked. "Not a great deal, I suppose. But to hear you speak so casually of such cruelty," and he hesitated. "I know you very little," and he leaned forward and took her hand, touching the bitten spot gently. "But it seems ill-suited to you."

"Because I'm a woman?" she asked, but her anger lacked conviction.

He met her eyes, rubbing the spot gently, and said, "No, lady. No, not because you are a woman."

Just as Maggie opened her mouth to answer, the guard ducked through the low opening of the tent. "My lord," he said, "The Steward would see you."

Aragorn nodded, and it was Maggie's turn to pale. Boromir stepped in.

"Aragorn," he said, "I have taken counsel with Denethor and - " but he hesitated then, noticing Maggie. He glanced from one to the other, his expression puzzled. 

Aragorn released her hand and sat back, gesturing to Boromir to come in. "Your lady has come with an offer," he said.

"Oh?" Boromir replied, taking the chair across from Maggie.

Aragorn nodded to her and said, "Would you relate to the Steward all that you have told me?"

Maggie did.

Boromir was quiet for a long moment.

"I see," he said finally, and Maggie fixed her gaze on the maps that covered the table.

"I didn't - " she began, then hesitated. "I - when I said I'd stay, I just - "

Boromir glanced at Aragorn. "Do you approve of this?" he asked, his tone hard.

Aragorn didn't answer at first, then said, "The weapons she has offered may give us an advantage. They are cruel, but this enemy is not concerned with our suffering, nor is he susceptible to reason, nor compassion, nor does he show compassion." His eyes narrowed and he looked towards the maps, but it was clear he was seeing something far distant. "We have had close experience of the cruelty of the Orcs of Mordor and of the White Hand, my friend," he said at last, "and of the Southrons, and the Easterlings. I would not inflict needless cruelty, but neither would I reject an advantage."

"And of the lady joining us?" Boromir asked.

Aragorn's smile was without humour. "She is not in my command," he replied. "If anything, she is in the command of the Captain-General and Steward of Gondor, though I wonder if even that is so, given that she was neither born here nor lives here now."

Boromir gave a derisive snort. "If she were in my command she would not be offering so easily to go against my wishes."

Maggie made a small sound, hardly realizing she'd made it, and Aragorn stood. "I shall return shortly," he said. "We shall continue our discussion then, if you would both await me here." Maggie watched him go, and turned back to find Boromir gazing at her.

"Boromir," she said, "I can't. I can't just stay here," and she felt the tears that had swelled in her throat begin to break through. Unable to meet his eyes, she went on shakily, "You talk about this thing like it's somehow okay for you to ride off into what you think is going to be - on what you think is this doomed mission, and I just can't." She drew a whistling breath and pressed her hands to her face, muffling the sound, feeling her heart as tight and painful as if it were clutched in a fist. 

In a moment he was beside her, his arms around her, and she turned towards him and pulled him into her embrace, holding him tightly as though to keep him from being torn away entirely. They stayed like that for long moments, Maggie unable to keep back the sudden sobs that wracked her, though she struggled to repress them. Boromir held her close, stroking her back and pressing gentle kisses to her hair and face.

Finally, her fists clenched behind him, she whispered fiercely, "I am not letting you go, I don't care, I'm not. God, it feels like I've lost _everything_," she cried, the tears threatening to break lose again. "Home isn't home anymore - I can't _bear_ the idea of going back there and losing this place, but this isn't home either - _no_ place is home anymore except you. Christ," she whispered, her face buried in his dark hair, "when I'm in your arms it feels like no place ever was, and I'm not letting you go. I don't care if I haven't even known you a month, I don't care if this is the stupidest thing I've ever done, I don't care what people say about affairs that start during wars or - "

He pushed her back stopped her with a finger to her lips, his other hand on her face. "Shhh, love," he said softly, his eyes on hers. "Breathe, sweet," he said, and she tried to obey, her breath hitching in her throat. "Nothing need be decided this moment," he said gently. "We are safe this moment, and we are together," and he smiled and kissed her lightly. "And though I am angry indeed that you would do this thing, I do not intend to abandon you, to this world or any other."

Tears sprang to her eyes again, and without thinking she said, "But you hardly know me. How can you - "

"Shhh," his finger to her lips again. "We have known each other a short time, it is true," he said, "but how long does it take for love to blossom? For two who are not meant for each other, an age would not suffice, but for two who are, days might be enough."

She smiled ruefully, remembering when words like that had been spoken to her - though not so sweetly - by one who had left the next month. "I want to believe it," she began, but he cut her off.

"Then do," he answered. "In the short time since we met, we have seen difficulties most never face, and yet here we are. Do you regret us?" She shook her head and he smiled, stroking her cheek gently. "I have known a great many women," he said, "both gentle ladies and valiant warriors. I am not rash in my affections. You are a match for me, lady, and I am uninterested in giving you up, or in losing you to your doubts about what 'people' say."

Just then, heavy footsteps outside warned them of another's approach, and with a discreet cough Aragorn re-entered the tent. "I would give you days to discuss this in privacy if I could," he said as he entered, "but I fear we have not the luxury of time." He seated himself again in the chair he'd abandoned, and turned to them.

"I would have you stay here," Boromir said to Maggie, "and sit with Merry, and aid my brother if you can, and help to defend the City if it is attacked. I would not have you ride with us to what may well be death."

Maggie inclined her head. "Chip may not go if I tell him I'm staying behind," she said on impulse. She thought it might even be true.

Boromir turned to Aragorn then, his eyes dark. "Will you do nothing to stay her?" he asked.

Aragorn sighed, and seemed about to say something, but then looked at Maggie. Raising an eyebrow, and said, "Lady, if I commanded you to stay in the City, would you obey me?"

She thought about it a moment, considering his expression. Finally she shook her head.

Leaning wearily back in his chair, Aragorn murmured, "Disobedient outworlders," smiling faintly. "You see?" he said to Boromir. "She listens not." Turning to Maggie he went on, "Perhaps if I were to tell you I am Isildur's heir, you would be more pliant?"

Maggie smiled shakily. "I'd heard that about you," she said. "It's cute and all, but I don't really care."

Aragorn shook his head sadly, glancing at Boromir with a teasing glint in his eye. "So many do not," he said, sounding grieved. "Aie, me."

Boromir chuckled. "The king of Gondor could not have more of my loyalty than you do, Ranger," he answered, and smiled. "In truth, he could not."

The other laughed, and said, "But how much loyalty would the king of Gondor have, my friend?"

Smiling, Boromir answered, "The true king? proven in his worth?"

Aragorn inclined his head, grey eyes meeting grey eyes. "Aye," he said, "the true king, proven in his worth."

Boromir hesitated, then grinned. "When I have a proven king before me," he said, "then I shall know."

A moment passed, tension suddenly heavy in the air, and Maggie's breath stopped in her throat, watching the two men watching each other. Then Aragorn laughed, and leaned forward to clap Boromir on the shoulder. "When you have a proven king before you," he said, "perhaps we shall both know." 


	17. A Quick Trip Home

I don't own any part of LOTR and I'm certainly making no money from this, but I'm more grateful to Mr. Tolkien than I can say for creating such a rich world that so many people want to engage with it themselves. [See previous chapters for other disclaimers and notes.]

**Author's note:** Revisions have been made to chapters twelve and fifteen. Although neither set of edits affect the direction of the story, I think they have improved it, and would be grateful if readers were interested in having a look.

**An End To Innocence**

**Chapter Seventeen: A Quick Trip Home**

Home. The shock of it was like a blow. That brief pause in everything, the universe's transmission flickering, and she was thrust into the noise and smell and riot of home. The morning traffic growled below, shouts of angry drivers and she steadied herself and looked out the window to see two small cars stopped at the traffic light, one with a crumpled back fender and the drivers out of their cars and yelling. The light was green, and traffic tried to inch around the pair without hitting them.

She wrinkled her nose at the smell that leaked in where the window was cracked - gasoline fumes and the garbage that hadn't been picked up and was piled on the sidewalk in leaking bags. She turned to Chip. "Another garbage strike?"

He nodded. "They're trying to work out the privatization thing again."

"Hooray." She looked around the apartment, which seemed even smaller than usual with all of them in it - Chip, Janet, Gus, Greg, Jack, Michael, herself. She wondered how she'd managed to live here. 

The box from the take-out she'd eaten before she'd left home for the Halfway Point still sat on the coffee table, and she was grateful that for once she'd actually finished it. She didn't want to think what weeks-old Thai food would smell like. Worse than the garbage strike, she supposed. She grabbed the box and tossed it into the trash, then turned towards her bedroom. "Make yourselves at home," she called over her shoulder. "I'll get changed." 

She had worn again one of Boromir's shirts, leaves at the collar and cuff, remembered his soft laugh and assent when she'd asked if she could borrow it. In the familiar dark of her bedroom she stripped, folded her borrowed clothes neatly, then slipped into jeans and her white cotton blouse, her leather blazer over it, high-heeled boots. Her "I'm here on business" uniform. She considered adding the Glocks, but decided against it; the lawyer's office frowned on unconcealed weapons. Instead, she took the small pistol from the nightstand and slipped it into her purse. 

A light caught her eye, and she moved her paperback copy of _The Way Of The Samurai_ from the telephone and saw the message light blinking. Picked up the handset, dialed her voice mail. Eight messages: two from Mira, one from Jack and Greg, one from Paul, four from Steven. She listened to the ones from Steven. "Maggie, listen," his familiar voice, apologetic, placating, "I'm sorry for how things ended. I haven't seen you out - I was thinking we could talk. Maybe I'll make you dinner. Call me." That was the first message. The second, "Mags, I just wanted to see if you were all right. Mira wouldn't tell me anything. Call me, would you? I'd really like us to be okay. To be friends. Okay? Call me when you get a chance." Third, "I'm serious Maggie, I really need to hear from you. I get it if you don't want to see me, but please, I just want to know you're all right. Please call me, really, seriously. I mean it. Okay? Okay." And finally, "Goddammit, if you don't call me back by the weekend I swear to god I'll come the fuck over there and camp on your doorstep. I'm worried about you Maggie, and no one'll tell me where you are. Call me, goddammit." That was the fourth and last message.

She sat on the edge of the bed, the phone in her hand. After a moment, she dialed Steven's number, her heart pounding.

He answered on the third ring, sleepy. "Yeah?"

She hesitated. Then, "Steven, it's Maggie."

A pause. When he spoke again he sounded fully awake. "Maggie, my god, where the hell have you been? Why didn't you call me?"

"I've been, um. Out of the country."

"And you're not even fucking checking your voice mail? What - didn't they have phones where you were?"

"I'm sorry you were worried, babe," she said softly. "I didn't mean to worry you."

"Yeah, well you fucking did." Another pause. "Geez, babe, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you. But - well, are you okay?"

She nodded as though he could see her, and said, "Yeah, I'm okay. How are you?"

She could see his expression, see him shrug and reach for the cigarettes he kept on the nightstand. How many times had she watched him do that, early morning phone calls while she lay in his bed, half-covered by the sheets that smelled warm, smelled of his aftershave and their sweat, watching him talk to someone, work a deal, calm someone down, bitch someone out. "I'm okay," he said, and she heard the sound of a match, the distinctive intake of breath that meant he'd lit up. Exhaling, he said, "Yeah, I'm okay. Hey, listen, what are you doing this weekend?"

She blinked, closed her eyes. "This weekend?" she asked, trying to think what day it must be. She had no idea. What was she doing this weekend? Fighting a war. "I'm leaving again tonight," she said.

Silence. "Tonight? For where?"

"It's, um. Listen, do you want to get a drink before I go?"

And in the brief hesitation that followed she knew his answer. "I can't tonight, babe," he said. "It's just a thing I've got to do."

She drew a breath. "Right then," she said, bringing her hand to her eyes. She felt suddenly exhausted. "Well, have fun," she said. "I don't think we'll probably talk again."

"Hey now," he said sharply. "Just 'cause I can't make it tonight doesn't mean I don't want to see you. Come on, wait a day. We can have lunch tomorrow."

"This won't wait, babe."

"Then when you get back."

"I don't think I'll be back."

"What do you mean, you don't think you'll be back?" His voice was hard. It meant he was worried, and angry. But long experience had taught her, he was less worried about her, and more about how her leaving would keep him from being the good guy. The guy who manages to be friends with the women he fucks over.

"Just that," she said. "Listen, you're fine, you don't need me, don't worry about it."

"I do worry about it goddammit," he said angrily.

"I'm not your concern anymore," she said. "You gave that up."

"It's not that easy."

"It was that easy for you to let me find you there with her."

A pause, and she could see his eyes narrow. "You know I didn't mean for that to happen."

She sighed. "It's ancient history, babe," she said. "Over. Just - don't worry about me. I'm fine. I gotta go. Have a nice one." 

She hung up on his voice saying something she couldn't make out, his tone unpleasant. She grabbed the spare mobile phone from where it nestled on its charger and walked out, glad he wasn't calling back, and angry that he let her go so easily. Glancing at the phone she saw eight missed calls, the same people who had left her voice mail at home - Mira, Mira, Jack and Greg, Paul, Steven, Steven, Steven, Steven. 

Hours passed in a blur of strangeness, and she kept being struck by brief waves of dizziness. They'd seen the others into the cab that would take them to the metro station, then had walked the six blocks to the tower that her lawyer's office was in. The glass elevator looked out towards the east, and from the eighty-third floor she could see the haze of Black City in the distance, a miasmic cloud hanging low on the horizon. Black City, that years ago was Washington, DC, that had been a wreck and a ruin for decades. Almost her whole life. Where Sorrow lived. She said softly, "That's where we're going?"

"Not all the way," Chip said. "Just outside. One of the burbs, this little enclave called Lakeshore. I talked to the guy while you were changing. We'll fax him the paperwork from your lawyer's office - he's okay with going forward on that. Gus and Janet and Michael will meet us out there."

"What kind of delay will we have on the equipment?"

The doors of the elevator opened, and a woman and boy got on. The elevator rose again.

"No delay," Chip answered. "Everything's set, from the ammunition to the armoured trucks."

Maggie nodded. The boy looked up at her with wide, brown eyes. She smiled at him, and he pressed close to the woman, and smiled tentatively back.

The ninety-first floor, and the doors opened. Maggie stepped out of the elevator, turned to be sure Chip was coming; the boy raised his hand in farewell as the doors closed, and she raised hers in return, too late. Brown eyes in a coffee-and-cream face, tender as new grass. 

"Come on." 

It was late afternoon when they stepped onto the street again. Maggie dialed Janet's number, and the other woman answered on the third ring. "How's it going?" she asked.

Janet hesitated, listening to muffled voices in the background, then said, "It's all set. Come on when you're ready."

"You got Greg and Jack settled before you went, right?"

"They're good," she said. "They're safe. They send their love."

"Are you sure you can do this?" Maggie asked.

"I think so. The wizard Gandalf, he told me some stuff. And he's going to be waiting when we're ready to come back." She paused. "He has a weird mind, Maggie," she said, and Maggie frowned.

"Weird how?"

Another pause. "It's - you're going to think I'm crazy."

Maggie chuckled. "Janet, I don't think _I'm_ crazy. Tell me."

"It's," and she hesitated, then said softly, "it's sparkly."

A beat, and then Maggie laughed delightedly. "Sparkly?"

"That's the best I can think of to describe it," she answered. "It's all sparkly. I can't see anything 'cause it's just shimmery, like - like it's all fireworks only without the noise. But I don't get that weird feeling that he's trying to hide something, or like I'm being locked out. It's warm, too," she said, and Maggie heard a smile in her voice. 

"Warm and sparkly," Maggie said. "That sounds like a good mind to have on our side." 

They stopped back by Maggie's apartment and she packed a leather satchel, slipping _The Way Of The Samurai_ in at the last moment. She changed clothes again, out of her "I'm here on business" uniform and into her "don't fuck with me" one. The Glocks rode in their familiar places at her hips, snug pants tucked into her boots, one of which bore one of the knives, the other knife back in its arm sheath, and instead of the blazer she wore her long leather coat, with its many pockets cut into the lining. She left her spare key and a note on the door of her neighbor's apartment, the note leaving instructions if she hadn't returned in a week. It wasn't new - she'd done this before, the same neighbor always willing to help, not asking questions, but so far Maggie had always returned before the set date. This time, on impulse, she also left three one-hundred dollar bills in the envelope, stowing the rest of her cash in one of the hidden pockets of the coat. The small pistol still nestled in her purse.

They took a cab to the metro station and ate at a noodle shop before boarding the train. Maggie bought a small bottle of cold Sake before they left, and in the gift shop found two stuffed dogs, one black, one brown, both with black button eyes, plush and soft. She bought them as well, and managed to stuff all three items into her already overpacked bag.

The trip to Lakeshore took two and a half hours, between the train ride and the cab they took to Chip's contact's home. The place was palatial, and Maggie's nerves were strung tight as they waited at the gate for the guard to fetch them. Inside, the business was conducted quickly and efficiently. The contact, who was introduced to her only as Mr. Coleman, was brisk and dispassionately friendly, offered them drinks which they declined, and took them to the outbuilding where Janet waited with Gus and Michael.

So close to Black City, Maggie could smell the fumes that weighed on the horizon as heavily as the shadows that had covered Minas Tirith on the dawnless day. Even in the dark, the haze made a deeper shadow, blocking the stars to the east.

"So, you think you can take the wizard out?" said Mr. Coleman.

Maggie's expression remained neutral. "We plan to try," she said, "assuming we can resolve the issues faced by our prospective allies."

He nodded. "Well," he said, "I hope the weapons I can provide will be of some assistance. If you do return," he said, fixing them with an inscrutable gaze, "perhaps we should discuss an alliance ourselves."

Chip nodded. "We should know in a week or so what's going to happen. In any case, you'll hear from me or my representative before month's end."

"All right," said Janet, casting a quick eye over the assembled weapons and equipment and turning to Maggie. "I'll get you and this stuff to where Gandalf is waiting, then the guys and I'll assemble Chip's people and we'll follow in probably an hour or two. Good?"

"Good," Maggie said. "But give me a minute."

Janet nodded.

Turning from the group, her nerves feeling shattered, she dialed Steven's number as she stepped a little ways away. His voice mail picked up on the second ring; he'd hit the "busy" button. At the tone, she said, "All right, I'm outta here, just wanted to let you know. Wish I coulda seen you before I left. Right then. Have a good one, babe - I'll talk to you later." She hung up and walked back to where Janet waited. "Good then," she said.

Janet closed her eyes, and Maggie braced herself for that flicker. Her phone began to ring just as the universe blinked, and she found herself on the dark of the Pelennor, Gandalf beside her in the glimmering moonlight, crates and trucks between them and the wall, and the mobile phone silent, "No signal" on its display. 

She turned it off. 

Mira found her in the Court of the Fountain. Maggie was sitting on the low wall that encircled the fountain and the White Tree in the glow of the early morning, one hand stretched out and catching drops that fell from the branches. Mira came and stood in front of her, and Maggie looked up.

"Staying?" said Mira. "What do you mean, staying?"

She shook her head. "Just that," she said.

"You can't stay, it's not your world."

"I don't care," she said. "I'm tired. I'm not leaving. If this place still exists when all's said and done, I'm not leaving."

"For some guy?" Mira said.

"Yeah," Maggie replied, nodding. "For _this_ guy."

"What makes you think he'll be any different?"

Maggie dropped her head to her hands, leaning her elbows on her knees. "He can hardly be worse, and it doesn't smell like rotting garbage here."

"So, what, you're just going to abandon all of us?"

Surging to her feet, Maggie pushed past Mira and strode towards the embrasure that looked out over the Pelennor, Mira following.

"Goddammit Maggie, answer me!"

"Yes!" she said, spinning on her heel and striding back towards Mira until they stood face to face. "Yes, if that's how you want to put it, yes!" She scowled, her heart beating hard, her chest tight. "Dammit, Mira, I am fucking _alone_ in that place!"

Mira's scowl matched her own, her olive skin flushed, dark eyes flashing. "You have us - what are we, shit now?"

She let out a bark of laughter, harsh, and threw her gaze up towards the sky. "Y'all aren't there at three in the morning when I wake up crying from nightmares," she said. "You're not there to bring me soup and read to me when I'm sick, or to - to fucking remind me that I need to get the tires rotated, or help me pay my fucking bills."

"You can call us for _any_ of that," Mira replied angrily. "Call me if you wake up crying from nightmares!"

"And you'll hurry right over and rock me to sleep again?" Maggie asked, meeting her eyes. "It's not the same," she said. "I love y'all, you know that. And you're the best partners that friends can be. But you can't hold me when I go to sleep. I don't wake up and smile when someone hugs me to him in the night because there's no one there to do it. Hell, even when I've been with someone, as often as not no one stayed the night unless they were too drunk to leave. That would have been too complicated, too much like a capital-R Relationship." She turned away again, feeling the bitterness of her own words, ashamed and angry, crossing her arms in front of her chest and gripping her own shoulders tightly. She knew Mira understood. She also knew Mira still didn't want her to stay. "I'm so fucking tired of being alone all the time," she said, her voice ragged.

"So you're just going to settle down with the first really-goddamned-foreign foreigner who bats his eyes at you?"

She sighed. "Yeah, Mira," she said wearily. "That's it exactly. That's exactly it."

"Don't pull that sarcastic crap with me," Mira said sharply.

"Then don't you start with it."

There was a pause. "If I'd have known you'd do something like this, I'd never have agreed to help."

"You're the one who told me I should tell him how I felt," Maggie replied softly.

"Yeah," said Mira, "when I thought it'd be a nice fling and help you get over asshole Steven."

Maggie glanced over her shoulder at the other woman. "So, you were thinking Boromir could be my rebound-boy?"

Mira shrugged. "Something like that."

Turning to face her, Maggie said, "Have you even looked at him? He's, like, forty years old and the fucking guy in charge of the army here. He's not really 'rebound-boy' material."

Mira seemed to almost smile, then didn't. "Yeah, well," she said, "I didn't know about the army thing when I said you should go for it." She hesitated, then reached out to take Maggie's hand. "Don't stay here, Maggie," she said gently. "We need you."

"And I need him," she whispered, her eyes on their clasped hands.

"Then bring him home with us," Mira said. "If he loves you like you love him, he'll come back with us."

She shook her head. "It'd kill him to leave here," she said.

Mira frowned. "Like, do you mean really kill him? like, we can come here but they can't go there?"

Maggie glanced at her, startled. "Actually," she said, "I hadn't thought about that. No, what I mean is that this is - he's been brought up to love this place more than his own life," she said. "I'm not sure he even loves his brother more, though I wouldn't want it to come down to a choice."

"Why should you stay here if he wouldn't come back with you?" Mira asked angrily. "Why should you have to give everything up when he won't?" 

Maggie drew a breath. "Because I _will_," she answered. "I will." 

Boromir found her in the apartments she'd taken when they'd first arrived. She had been lying on the bed, gazing out the window at the sky, the two plush dogs sitting on the pillow beside her when she'd heard him come in, and she smiled as he entered the chamber. The empty Sake bottle was on the bedside table. She picked up the black dog. "I brought you a present," she said, holding it out to him. "I got one for Faramir too."

He came and sat next to her on the bed, a smile of his own playing about his lips, and he took the proffered dog. "What a noble beast," he said, gazing at it, and he touched its ears, turned it over to examine its paws. "So soft." He leaned over and kissed her. "Thank you. What shall I name him?"

She looked at the dog. "I don't know," she said. "What's he look like to you?"

Boromir considered the question thoughtfully, then said, "Thalion, I believe."

"'Thalion'?" she repeated, sitting up.

"It means strong, or dauntless," he said, "if I remember correctly. In any event," he went on, holding the animal to his face and inhaling softly, "he looks like a Thalion to me." He glanced at her then, and said, "And he smells of you."

She chuckled. "I slept with him when I got back last night. So, he's sort of a used present."

"Gently used," Boromir said with a smile. "How did your trip go?"

"It went well," she said, dropping her gaze. "We got the supplies, and Chip's getting his people sort of acclimated."

Boromir frowned. "It seems strange to me, how quickly they would join in our struggle."

"Cult of personality," she replied. "Some of it, at least."

He looked at her quizzically.

"It's just that Chip is one of those people who inspires loyalty," she said. "Plus, they know he's a good leader, and they're getting something out of it themselves. They stick together." She shrugged. "Chip convinces his squad leaders, and then the squad members have two reasons to come - Chip and their own leaders. And once one squad member decides to come, the rest of the squad has another reason to come. It's a snowball effect."

"Ah," and he nodded. "And apart from that?" he asked. "How do you find your home?"

Steven, who wanted to see her but not enough to do it; Mira, who wanted her to come back, to leave this place for good; Greg and Jack, who had stayed behind, in hiding. The smell, the noise. The boy's brown eyes, his small hand raised in goodbye as the steel doors slid shut. "About like always," she said, and rubbed her nose vigorously to try to push back the unexpected tears that suddenly threatened.

He reached out to her with the hand not holding Thalion, and raised her face until she met his eyes. His grey gaze was warm, concerned. "Does something trouble you?" he asked. "You seem... sad."

She shrugged. "It's nothing," she said.

He cupped her cheek, and she pressed into his touch. "I have rarely seen you drink," he said. "It is an odd smell," and he set Thalion down and picked up the bottle, not taking his hand from her cheek. "Unlike ale, or wine. What is it?"

"Sake," she said, closing her eyes and bringing her hand up to touch his. "It's Japanese rice wine."

He made a small sound of assent and set the bottle back down. "Tell me," he said gently.

"It's - I don't know if now's the time," she said, frowning.

"No one waits for me," he said. "Are you needed elsewhere?"

She shook her head.

"Then tell me."

She didn't speak, didn't trust her voice.

After a time, he pulled her forward, gathering her into his arms. "You sacrificed much in selling your land," he said softly, stroking her hair. "Too much, perhaps."

"No," she said, slipping her arms around him and holding him. "No, not too much. I'm just not sure what to do next."

She felt him stiffen slightly, and she raised her face to look at him. He looked back at her with eyes she couldn't read. "What do you believe are your choices?" he asked.

Her breath caught in her throat when she started to answer, and she pressed her face back to his broad chest. After a moment, she said, "Well, basically two. I can go home and help get rid of Sorrow, or I can go home and help get rid of Sorrow and then come - " and she hesitated. "I mean, if there's - if - I mean maybe there's something I could do here that'd be more fun than what I've been doing back home."

His arms tightened around her. "I do not wish to - to influence you," he said.

She pushed away from him, scowling, struggling out of his embrace. "Too late," she snapped, turning her back to him. "Look, if you don't want me here, if there's no place for me here you have to tell me."

She heard his intake of breath, but was afraid to turn back around. "If I did not want you here," he snapped, "I would have told you before now. I thought I had made my desires known."

"Well yeah, but," and she hesitated, feeling as if there were a distance of miles between them and not at all sure where it had come from. "People have changed their minds about me before," she said finally, bitterness hard in her voice.

Suddenly his hand was on her arm and he pulled her hard around to face him. Anger colored his features, and he said, "My mind, and my heart, are in agreement on this, Maggie. I did not wish to influence your decision for this is _your_ life as well as mine, and _your_ home which you are considering abandoning. But if the decision is mine, then you will stay, do not doubt it."

"What about your father?" she asked. "Your people? It's been pointed out to me," she said with a frown, "that this isn't my world."

"My father and my people are my concern," he answered sharply, and then his gaze softened and when he spoke again, so had his tone. "They will not deny you," he said. "They will not deny me in this." He smiled then, and added, "And remember, you are the heroine who brought the weapons which saved so many of our soldiers. You are not reviled, lady."

She returned his smile shakily and picked up Thalion from where the stuffed dog had fallen. "You dropped your dog," she said, handing it to him.

He cupped the back of her neck and drew her close, kissed her cheek, and then her lips. "As long as I do not lose you, sweet." He leaned back then and his gaze flickered over her. "And indeed, if I were to let you loose in the City in this attire, you might be lost to me indeed. Your world has an eye for displaying the loveliness of its ladies."

She glanced down at herself and realized she was still wearing the snug black pants and equally snug tee-shirt she'd worn the day before. "Well," she said, smiling, "we lack subtlety in comparison with some places."

He laughed, and ran one finger down her thigh, pulling her close again. "You will not find me complaining," he said, "only, I wonder," and she caught his thoughtful gaze. "How difficult are these unsubtle clothes to remove?" 


	18. Neither One Nor The Other

I don't own any part of LOTR and I'm certainly making no money from this, but I'm more grateful to Mr. Tolkien than I can say for creating such a rich world that so many people want to engage with it themselves. [See previous chapters for other disclaimers and notes.]

**An End To Innocence**

**Chapter Eighteen: Neither One Nor The Other**

In the dim light of dawn, Maggie woke slowly to Boromir's fingers tracing the line of the almost-healed cut on her thigh. She turned to face him and he met her gaze, raised his hand to touch the mark she still bore on her forehead, both injuries from Helm's Deep. "The company departs soon," he said softly. 

"I know." She took his hand in hers and kissed his fingers gently. She wanted to tell him she'd be all right, not to worry, but hollow promises always sounded to her like lies.

"I fear for you," he said.

"I know," she repeated. "I'm afraid too, for both of us. For all of us." She kissed his fingers again.

"You have sacrificed so much already," he said, stroking her hair back from her face. "Please do not sacrifice more for us. For me. Stay here, and give me someone to return to."

"That's not playing fair," she said gently. "And it won't work. You have everything to come back to, you don't need me here for that." He started to speak, but she stopped him with a finger to his lips. "Don't fight me on this anymore, Boromir, please," she said, meeting his gaze and holding it. "You'll break my heart, and you still won't stop me."

He cupped her cheek in his hand, and she leaned into his touch. "Why are you so determined?" he asked.

She was quiet for a long time, thinking about it. Finally, she spoke.

"When I was about twenty-four or twenty-five," she began, "my mom told me about something that happened when she was small. A terrible thing that happened." She paused, remembering her mother, remembering the sun on her mother's hair, and her blue eyes. "A terrible disaster," she went on after a moment, "that killed thousands of people. And she told me that while it was happening - because it wasn't instantaneous, people had time to get reporters there, and rescue personnel, and to think about it - she was listening to reports from the scene, and they were talking to a woman who was trying to get to where the disaster had happened." Maggie hesitated, remembering, tears coming to her eyes. Her voice was thick when she continued. "They were talking to this woman, who was crying, and they were asking her why she wanted to get there, why she wanted to go into this terrible destruction, and she said her husband was inside. She said," and Maggie's voice broke. "She said, 'what if he's hurt and I can't help him? What if he's dying and I can't hold his hand?'" Her breath hitched in her throat, and she said, "I think that she would have given anything just to be able to touch him, just to be able to be with him, whatever had happened, even if it was just to hold his hand while he died. Anything. Anything to be with him."

She paused, and reached up to wipe the tears from her eyes, biting her lip and trying push the memory away to where it always lived in the back of her mind. "I wish I could tell you it was some noble reason, like, 'because it's the right thing to do' or something," she said, not looking at him, "but the truth is, that's it. When that woman's husband left that morning, no one could have imagined how the day would end. But I know how this might end. And I really, honestly would rather risk dying than ever have to think of -" but she couldn't follow the thought to its conclusion. She took a deep breath, and let Boromir pull her into the circle of his arms.

"I wish I knew whether her husband had lived," she said softly. "My mom never knew."

He held her to his chest, his arms around her, stroking her hair, and they lay like that for a long time. 

When she started towards the Houses of Healing, plush dog in hand, the sun was just casting its rays over the walls of the City. Boromir had left their bed before the sun was up, off to see to his men, and Maggie had dozed, lingering in the warmth left by his body. He had said he would meet her on the field if they did not encounter each other at the Houses of Healing, where they both had people to see, and so here she was, feeling - as usual - slightly out of place. Her clothing set her apart again, no longer in the leather leggings and tunic but in her own jeans and boots, cotton shirt. She wore her leather coat less as protection against the slight chill in the air than as armor against her own fear, and she pulled it close, inhaling the familiar scent. The Glocks and her body armor were still in her chambers, but within the coat she carried the small pistol she'd taken from her bedside table, and _The Way Of The Samurai_ was stowed in one of the pockets. She shivered slightly with the knowledge of what she'd chosen to do - ride willingly towards death when home waited only a flicker of reality away. She wondered again how she had come to lose her sense of self-preservation so fully. 

Then she smiled to herself and said softly, quoting, "'The Way of the Samurai is in desperateness. Ten men or more cannot kill such a man. Common sense will not accomplish great things. Simply become insane and desperate.'" She chuckled. "'Insane and desperate.' Hell yes. Make decisions within the space of seven breaths, be determined, and advance.' Let's hear it for the Hagakure." She entered the Houses of Healing still smiling to herself. 

By now she knew the way without asking, and soon was at Faramir's door. It was slightly ajar, and voices came from inside. 

"...troubled by her stubbornness?" 

"No," Boromir said cautiously, and Maggie froze at his tone. "Or, perhaps. Faramir, I do not intend to lose her, but.... I am unsure how to... to manage her." 

She took a breath. 

Faramir laughed. "Manage her? She is neither one nor the other, is she, Boromir?" 

Another breath. 

"She is both," Boromir responded with a chuckle. "The _woman_ obeys me, Faramir," he said, "but the warrior, the warrior does not, and it is the warrior who must." 

A third. 

"She has spirit." 

Fourth. 

"You sound like our Rohirric friends discussing a skittish mount." 

Three more breaths, feeling more panicky than she had when she realized they were riding into certain death - because certain death was days away and this was on the other side of a door - and she tapped softly. Faramir answered, "Come." 

She slipped inside. 

"Maggie," Faramir said with a smile. "Come and sit." 

She glanced from one to the other, and could tell that they wondered how much she had heard. "I brought you a present," she said to Faramir, holding up the dog, and handing it to him as she reached the bedside. 

His eyes widened and a smile spread across his face. "A noble animal," he said, and held it to his face, inhaling softly. 

Maggie and Boromir both laughed, and she felt some of her tension ease, if only slightly, at the sound their voices made together. "That's almost exactly your brother's reaction when I gave him his," she said. 

Faramir grinned. "They are not wrong who say we are much alike," he said, glancing at Boromir and settling the dog in his lap. 

Boromir stood and took Maggie's hand, drawing her toward the chair he was vacating. "I must see to my men," he said as she sat, then he leaned down and kissed her cheek, his hand lingering a moment too long on her hair, a gentle caress. "On the field, then, Maggie. Do not tarry overlong." 

"I'll be there," she replied softly. 

Boromir turned then and embraced Faramir, whispered something in his ear. Faramir smiled, and said something softly back. Then, "Return to me, brother," and he gripped Boromir's hand firmly. 

Boromir smiled. "Only death could keep me from you, and I do not intend to die." With a quick nod to each of them, he turned and was out the door, his footsteps echoing away down the hall. 

After a moment Faramir said, "Boromir tells me you ride with the army after all. I will be sorry not to have your company here," and he cast an inscrutable gaze across her. 

She shifted slightly, not meeting his eyes. "I have to, Faramir," she said. "Every time I think about not going, I get this image of him lying there on the battlefield hurt, needing someone and no one there." 

Faramir nodded. "I was a grown man with men of my own to command before I stopped seeing that same image every time my brother rode out of the City." 

"Then you understand." 

"Not entirely," he said, and glanced at her. "I think there is something more here than the love you bear my brother." 

She frowned, and hesitated. Had she spent so much time with Faramir that he could talk to her about this? "Like what?" she asked warily. 

Stroking the plush ears of the dog, he said gently, "I see something in your eyes when you look at Boromir that is not ... simple affection." He paused, and when she didn't answer, he went on, "Some months ago, one of my men became lost in Ithilien. We had been tracking the movements of the Enemy, and a sudden storm came. He became separated from his comrades, and was injured in the storm. Disoriented and hurt, he lost himself in the forest, and for three days we could not find him, nor he us. The eyes he turned on me when I found him at last are the eyes you turn on Boromir. As though you have been lost, and have longed for a captain, and have found one. Or have been found." 

"And? Is there something wrong with that?" she asked softly, still not looking at Faramir. 

"No," he replied, "for Boromir is a fine captain, and he does love you. But he is your lover, and your captain, and he told you to stay, and yet you ride with the army. I question it." 

"You're not really in a - " but she bit back the rest of the retort. Given what she had heard, it seemed he was indeed in a position to know. Still not looking at him, she felt his gaze on her. "He's not my captain," she muttered. "I haven't signed anything." 

Faramir chuckled. "Oh, but he is, lady, that is clear. He both is, and is not, and I fear things will become difficult if that remains so." 

"Why?" she asked, scowling. "Why can't I just - do what seems right to _me?"_

"An army is not built of a thousand men each doing as he sees fit," he replied, "and lovers are not meant to command each other's lives. Yet, you are both soldier and lover to him." 

"I just - I - " and she stood and paced to the window, then turned slightly to look at him. He watched her calmly, his eyes never leaving her face. "I don't know how to do anything else," she said finally. "I _can't_ stay." 

Faramir nodded. "That much I do understand," he replied. "But if you and my brother both return from this war, and if, in the end, we are victorious and you choose to remain here rather than return with your people, I would have you think carefully about the nature of things between Boromir and yourself. You cannot be his lover _and_ his soldier for long." 

She turned to him and crossed her arms. "And how is this your business anyway?" 

"What concerns Gondor concerns me," he answered, unperturbed. "Boromir is our Captain-General, the Captain of the Tower Guard, and if the king maintains the position, he will be Steward." Faramir smiled wryly. "He _is_ Steward until the king is crowned. It concerns me." 

Maggie brought a hand to her face and turned back to the window. The morning was growing later, and soon the army would ride for Mordor. Chip and Paul were seeing to the vehicles, Tank and Mira organizing squads, though Tank would not be going with them. Boromir and Imrahil and, she supposed, Aragorn were all doing whatever it was commanders here did before riding off to hopeless battle. 

"Right then," she murmured finally. "Right." 

"Maggie," said Faramir softly. "Come here." 

She turned, and he gestured to the edge of the bed. "Come here, sit." 

She did, and he took her hand. 

"This is all so new for you," he said. "So different from what you are accustomed to." He shook his head, his gaze searching her face. "In your world, you can lead or follow as you please. You can command or step back from it as suits you. Not so, here." 

"How do you know what I'm used to?" she asked irritably, trying to reclaim her hand, but he did not release her, and he chuckled, stroking her wrist soothingly. 

"There are many of your people here in the Houses of Healing," he said. "And they are not shy, nor reticent. I have learned much." 

Startled, she almost laughed. "Yeah, well," she replied, "they're not - they're - " and she hesitated. "Okay," she said finally. "You're right. They're right. It's different." 

He nodded. "I would not want those differences to come between you and my brother." 

"Or between your brother and himself," she said. 

Faramir smiled. "You are also perceptive." 

"Do you think he's unsure of me?" 

"Not of you," he answered. "Not of your affection, nor of his. But of his command of you? Perhaps." 

"Do you mean of whether he should," she asked, "or whether he does?" 

He looked at her and his fingers stilled on her wrist. "Both." 

She hesitated. Boromir doubted her, and she learned it from eavesdropping and from his brother. "Ah," she said with a nod, and when she pulled away this time he let her. 

"Maggie," Faramir said softly, and touched her chin, turned her to face him. "What you and my brother share brings you both strength, and I am glad of that. But I think you fear losing too much of yourself. You desire his command in one arena, yet refuse it in the one in which he _must_ demand it. It is a difficult balance, yet it is one you must strike. Maggie," he said when she didn't answer. "Do not fear losing yourself. You will not." 

Irritated, she said, "How do you know?" 

He paused, then shrugged. "I suppose I do not know," he answered, "but I believe it. You have a strong mind, and a strong will, or you would not be here. Boromir will not subsume you, but you must learn to trust him." 

She started. "Trust him?" she said sharply. "I do trust him. I trust him more than I've ever trusted anyone." 

Faramir held her gaze for a long moment, long enough that she felt herself wanting to shy away from him, but before she did, his eyes softened, though his tone when he spoke was firm. "You will obey him in the field, Maggie." 

After a moment, she replied, "Not if he tells me to stay here. But anything else, yes." 

Faramir made a sound, and sat back. "You cannot pick and choose, do you not yet understand that?" 

"No," she said sharply, "I don't." 

"You _do_," he replied sharply, "you only refuse to accept it." She started to stand up, but he took her hand in his and with a strength that surprised her he pulled her back down, and again turned her to face him. For a long moment his eyes searched hers, and if she could have torn her gaze from his she would have. Finally, his expression softened and he said, "Then since you will go, I shall endeavour to be glad that my brother has one as stubborn and devoted as you at his back. Do not let him fall." 

"If I do," she replied, "it'll be because I fell first." 

She met Mira on the field as the olive-skinned woman was returning to the city, Tank beside her, using a cane but with his arm still around his companion. Mira leaned in to kiss Maggie's cheek when they met, and said to Tank, "Go on up. I'll meet you." 

Tank nodded, then grinned at Maggie and said, "Helluva world this is. Wish I was coming with you." 

As his footsteps receded, Mira turned to Maggie and said, "I'm staying here with Tank. Paul too. If things get bad, if your army loses and things get bad, Janet'll send us home." 

Maggie nodded and said, "That's good, that's good," even though her heart clenched. "I don't want you to get hurt, Mira." She fixed her eyes on the other woman's and said, "You know I love you, right?" 

"I love you too," Mira replied, and her eyes were wet with unshed tears. "I just don't understand." 

"I know. I - maybe when I get back I'll be able to explain it better." 

"You'd just better get back." 

Neither the men nor the horses seemed pleased with the low growl of the vehicles, but since the horses seemed somewhat more skittish than the men, Chip kept the trucks and HumVees well away from the cavalry. In the trucks rode the thirty men and women who had agreed to come on this venture, and Maggie was surprised that so many had turned up. Chip had laughed when she mentioned that to him, and said only, "Have some faith, Mags." 

She didn't want to ask him what she should have faith _in_. 

Chip had made Gus squad leader in Tank's place, and Michael his own second in command, as he had once been Michael's. Michael seemed pleased with the changed roles, and had fallen into it quickly. Maggie walked beside him for a time, the two of them keeping pace with one of the armored trucks. Finally, Maggie said, "So, isn't it weird, being Chip's second when he used to be yours?" 

Michael shrugged. "Chip's a good man, and I trained him. He knows what he's doing." 

"Yeah," Maggie said, nodding, "but I mean, is that all? it's just whether he's good?" 

Michael glanced at her. "What are you getting at, babe?" 

"I'm not sure," she said, frowning. "It's just - how do you go from being in charge to not being in charge and not feel weird about it?" 

He laughed. "You just do, y'know? I mean, if you trust someone to lead you, then what does it matter whether you're doing the leading or they are?" 

"Not everyone thinks that way," she said. 

"No?" He slipped an arm around her shoulder and hugged her briefly. "You're thinking about your Captain guy, aren't you? Is he giving you trouble?" Michael glanced at her with a quick grin. "Want me to kick his ass?" 

She chuckled, and shook her head. "More his brother, really. He thinks there might be trouble because Boromir is used to being in charge and - well, it's just not clear where the lines are between the two of us." 

"'Cause you're used to being in charge of you, and here you're sort of in charge of you and sort of not?" 

"Mm. You got it." She leaned down and plucked a blade of grass, turned it between her fingers as they walked. "It's like I'm - like an adjunct. Not one of his soldiers and not one of Chip's, but not really a free agent either." 

Michael chuckled. "You're a splinter cell," he said, and she punched him lightly in the arm. "Have you talked to him about it?" he asked. 

She shook her head. "Not really. Not exactly. In so many words." 

"Good," he said, and laughed at her startled expression. "Guys _hate_ talking about this shit! Come on, you just - just be who you are." He hugged her again quickly, then with a quick ruff of her hair dropped his arm. "Just be who you are and it'll all come out right. Trust me." 

They walked together in silence a while longer, Maggie trying to get used to the strange sound and smell of the trucks, which had seemed normal enough at home but surreal and out of place in the landscape around them. After a long time, Michael said, "_Do_ you trust him?" 

She looked at him. "Of course I do." 

"I mean to lead you." 

Maggie didn't answer at first, thinking. And the more she thought, the more she realized, she didn't know. If she trusted him to lead her, why was she here? 

And if she didn't, why was she here? 

"Goddamn it," she muttered. 

"You don't know, do you." It wasn't a question. "Y'know," he said, "that's okay. You don't have to know. You just have to do. And you're doing." 

"What I'm doing could get me killed. Could get you killed, could get all y'all's people killed." 

"Ah, no," Michael replied, waggling his finger at her. "No. You're responsible for you, _not_ for us. You didn't hold a gun to anyone's head. You provided an opportunity. We took it. And not exactly for free, either, Miss 'I've got a farm and I'm living in fucking New Washington.'" 

She chuckled. "Okay, fair enough." 

"So they're thinking six days to get there, right?" 

"More or less." 

"And then we kick ass, loot the city or the castle or whatever it is, and haul our happy butts back home, yes?" 

"Something like that," she said with a wary smile. "I'm not sure about the looting part." 

"Eh, we'll figure it out. First order of business is to kick some ass." He glanced at her, then smiled. "Don't worry, Chip didn't lie about our chances of winning. We figure the trucks'll outrun the bastard enemy, though, so even if we lose, we can still kick it back to Minas Tirith and home. Always know your escape route," he said. "Never go into a place you don't know how to get out of. We're good. We'll be fine." 

It was nearly midday before they got close enough to really see it, but when the sun emerged from behind the clouds it lit the scene before them with a silvery flame, and two dozen outworlders who walked beside the trucks stopped in their tracks, shading their eyes and gaping. 

"Holy god." 

The trucks crawled to a stop and the men and women inside clambered out, while around them the army marched on, oblivious. 

"What the hell is that?" 

Maggie stood beside Michael and Chip, Chip's troops gathering around them, the murmur of their voices rising. 

"It's incredible." 

"It's beautiful." 

"That's not what we're supposed to attack, is it?" 

"Geez - six days, fuckwit. No, it isn't. But what the hell is it?" 

Maggie shook her head. "It must be Osgiliath." 

"Osgiliwhat?" 

"Osgiliath. Boromir told me about it. It used to be the capital, but they abandoned it a long time ago except as an outpost." 

"Geezus." 

The rays of the late morning sun sparkled on the stones of the city that lay before them, a white jewel in the green and brown landscape. Domed towers rose into the sky, gold and silver glittering on them but no more brightly than the white stones themselves, and far to the east the lowering clouds that brooded over Mordor seemed stark and forbidding, as though they reached out heavy-fingered hands to grasp it. 

"Damn. I thought Minas Tirith was the prettiest thing ever. Why'd they abandon it?" 

"I can't remember," she answered. "Something about five hundred years ago it was over-run by orcs, and the guy Boromir's named for took it back, but I guess it was," she hesitated. "Ruined, or too dangerous or something. Then about six months ago the enemy took the eastern half of the city." 

A restless murmur. "Think they're still there?" 

Someone laughed, and said, "They won't be for long." 

But nothing moved in the white city except the army, and after the soldiers and cavalry had crossed, one by one the trucks rumbled over the rebuilt bridge into East Osgiliath. Around them, voices of the Gondorian and Rohirric soldiers muttered about the state of the place. Crude drawings and words in a language Maggie had never seen were scrawled on the walls, and detritus and offal littered the broad thoroughfare and the streets leading off it. 

"Be nice to come back here and clean it up," said Chip at one point, walking beside Maggie. 

"Yeah," she said, nodding, looking around. "It makes me think of home." 

He chuckled, and she grinned. "Yeah, except at home you have to get a permit to wash someone else's building." 

Some five miles past Osgiliath the army stopped, and Maggie stayed with Michael while their small company set up camp. She had watched the horsemen ride off to the east and had felt her stomach lurch wondering where they were going. She wanted Boromir beside her. Wanted at least to know where he was. Instead, she wandered and listened to the conversations of the people around her, overheard their mild confusion about where exactly they were. "So is it earth?" she heard one low voice mutter to another, "or something else?" and the other voice answered, "Earth or something else, I don't know or care. I want to do our job, get home, get paid, and get to work on that asshole in ash town." 

Puzzled, Maggie sought out Chip. "What's ash town?" she asked. 

"Hmm?" He glanced up from the rifle he had partially disassembled on the ground. "Oh, that's Black City. Some of the guys started calling it that after our first little foray, 'cause the whole thing is fucking covered in this sooty black ash. It's why it looks black from a distance." 

"Where's the ash come from?" 

Chip shrugged. "Not sure. Smells strange, though. Not like something burned. Sort of," and he hesitated, frowning, groping for a word. "Sort of musty, and metallic," he said at last. "Like old books and rusty iron." 

"Weird." 

"Yeah." 

Another day and night passed before Maggie saw Boromir. She rose at dawn on their third day out from Minas Tirith, along with the rest of the army, and as she was pulling on her boots she felt a shadow fall over her. Looking up, she saw him silhouetted against the sky, and with a smile she zipped her boots and stood. "Hiya," she said. 

He kissed her cheek, then took her hand and led her a little ways away. "I dislike being so far from you as we get closer to Mordor," he said quietly. 

She nodded. "Yeah, I was trying to figure out how I could invite myself along to ride with y'all at the front, but I didn't want to be presumptuous." 

He laughed, a short sharp sound. "You presumed enough to come, why not a step more?" She cast him a wary glance but he was looking towards where Chip had the hood of one of the trucks up and was examining something. "Your people would not take it amiss?" he asked. 

She glanced towards their small encampment and shrugged. "They're really more Chip's people than mine. Most of mine are in Minas Tirith or back home, except for Michael, and he's really Chip's too." She looked back at Boromir. "I'm sort of betwixt and between," she said. "I'm not their people, I'm not your solider, I'm just here." 

"You may not be one of Gondor's soldiers," he answered, catching her gaze and holding it, "but you must needs be placed, and I shall place you with me. Go and gather your things." 

She hesitated. "Won't someone think it's weird, me being with you? I mean, will it upset anything?" 

"It is for no one else to judge," he said. 

"Yeah, but they will anyway," she replied. 

He took a breath. "It is not your place to question my decisions where it regards my command," he said quietly, but there was steel in his tone, and she hesitated, surprised. His eyes searched her face. "Maggie," he said softly, "an army is made of commanders and those they command. There is no place for you if you are neither, and I will not be parted from you now that danger looms ever closer. My men will not question me, and I have no superiors in this company - only allies and soldiers. Aragorn is not yet king, Imrahil is Prince of Dol Amroth and subject to the Steward, Éomer is ally and friend, but does not command me. So you see?" he said with a small smile. "All that is well. But I should not have to explain my every request to you before you will comply." She opened her mouth to answer but he stopped her with a finger to her lips. "Go," he said, "and gather your things." 


	19. The Hour Of Doom

I don't own any part of LOTR and I'm certainly making no money from this, but I'm more grateful to Mr. Tolkien than I can say for creating such a rich world that so many people want to engage with it themselves. [See previous chapters for other disclaimers and notes.]

**An End To Innocence**

**Chapter Nineteen: The Hour of Doom**

_A/N: The songs herein, "All Of Them Together" and "Home By Morning", are by the incomparable fileg (Tay - mywebpages . comcast . net / gryphonsmith / write.html, and please forgive the formatting but ff.net hates URLs) and are used with her kind permission. She is also responsible for the reference to Faramir and Boromir as the raven and the blade. Inspiration for the constellation is from Stargazers at Henneth Annun beta (henneth-annun . net), and the chapter "The Swan and the Eagle" by Altariel . Author's Note included at the beginning rather than the usual end because I couldn't bear the thought that any might read these songs or see that constellation and not know where the credit lies._

*******

_The woman obeys me,_ he had said,_ but the warrior does not, and it is the warrior who must._

Why was it so hard?

It had been a mistake, her coming, she knew. She's known it before she'd decided. Even as she'd spoken with Chip, as she'd arranged the end of everything she knew, she'd known she was coming and she'd known it was a bad idea, unwise in the extreme. She could do very little in the upcoming fight except give everyone who loved her one more thing to lose, and when it was over, if they weren't all destroyed, what then? She had nothing to go back to, and wasn't sure whether she had anything to stay for. She had cast herself loose from any mooring, and now she drifted. But even so, she didn't know what else she could have done. Staying behind had seemed as impossible as cutting off her own arm.

And so here she was.

She and Boromir had exchanged few words since she'd joined him at the front of the host. She knew he was angry with her, but she didn't know what to do about it. Instead of trying to force a resolution, she turned his earlier words over in her mind, looking at them from different angles, trying to find how she and they fit together. How she and he fit together. She supposed that she should have never allowed him to think of her as one of his troops, should have pressed the issue, or asked Chip to add her to his command, but she wasn't used to this paradigm, hadn't realized it would be a problem for her to operate alone in this vast number of people who had to function as a whole. She had thought she could be independent of anyone else during the fight, relying on no one and relied on by no one.

But now in the midst of Gondor's armies, she'd begun to see. She'd watched as Boromir's men had drilled their troops, had admired the smooth functioning of this huge machine of war, many units in an intricate dance. She could see as if in the smoke from the campfires the way the units would move with the enemy, the cut and thrust and parry; pairs, trios, and quads of men with their backs to each other and their blades to the foe, one mind, smooth and fluid, moving always with an awareness of the others. They were not in the chaos of battle, no, but she could see, could see how this would fit into that chaos, could see the dance they would make.

And she was the one alone, adrift, without a place in the machinery. She was the stone in the wheels, the dancer with no partner who would trip up the others, throw their rhythm off. It had been a mistake, and yet, here she was. 'No way out but through,' she thought to herself as she spread her cloak over the thin blanket she'd laid on the ground. Then footsteps, light as a cat's, and she looked up.

"Legolas," she said softly. Moonlight lit his skin like clearest alabaster. The last time they'd spoken had been in the gardens of the Houses of Healing.

He smiled. "I had thought this must be you, too slender for a soldier."

"Sit?" she said, gesturing to the blanket, and he joined her on it. "I'm glad to see you," she said. "I've wanted to apologize for what a - for how rude I was to you the last time we talked."

"It is nothing for which you need apologize," he replied.

She nodded, saying,"Yeah, it really is. I'm just - I feel like a bull in a china shop sometimes, just bumbling around knocking shit over. I'm sorry," she said with a rueful smile, and glanced at him. "You've been so nice to me, and I just -"

He raised a finger to his lips, and she quieted. "I understand," he said. "You fear for Boromir - for what must come to pass, now that the king has returned."

She paused, considering whether to question his easy confidence of what 'must' come to pass, and decided against it. "So," she said at last, "you don't hate me for being such a - for being so harsh in the garden?"

"Lady," he said, "I have been alive for quite a long time, as mortals count it. Were I to hate all who had spoken harshly to me, I would have no heart left for friendship."

She breathed a little sigh of relief. "It's just that I know what a good man Boromir is, and I - I'd like y'all to be friends."

"We are, after our fashion," said Legolas. "And I do not think he would be surprised to know I question his wisdom when it comes to Elendil's heir. Nor would I be surprised to learn that he cares naught for what I think on that score," he continued with a smile, "which, I suppose, is as it should be."

She glanced at him and frowned. "How do you figure?" she asked.

"He must decide how to respond to Aragorn's claim, when he makes it," he said, "and while there is no ill-will between us, I do not believe he trusts the Elves to have Gondor's good at heart."

"Should he?" she asked suddenly. "I mean, is he right to worry? Will Aragorn's loyalties be split when he marries Arwen?"

"You know of Undómiel, then, of our Evenstar?" Legolas asked.

Maggie raised an eyebrow. "Is that the same as Arwen? God, you people and your double handful of names. Yes, Boromir told me about her."

After a moment Legolas shook his head. "I do not believe Aragorn's loyalties will be divided, for the Elves are leaving Middle-earth."

She looked at him. "Leaving?"

He nodded.

"Leaving?" perplexity written across her features. He nodded again. "But," and she looked around, helplessly. "Where will they go? I mean, isn't Middle-earth, like... the world?"

He hesitated, a startled expression on his face, then laughed. "As your world is 'the world'? Nay, child, the world is wide," he said, shaking his head. "The world is wide, and this only a part of it."

She gazed at him, her brow furrowed. "But you're staying, right?" she asked softly.

He looked at her for a long moment, then replied, "I have not planned beyond the coming battle."

She nodded hesitantly, wishing for a better answer.

"Will you fight with Gondor when we reach the Black Gate," he asked, "or with your mercenaries?"

She glanced away, towards the back of the column where the trucks and guns would be if she could have seen them in the darkness. "With Gondor, I think," she said, deciding not to dispute his mischaracterization of them. They weren't mercenaries, they were pragmatists. "Boromir wants - he thinks I'm a loose cannon."

Legolas looked at her quizzically. "I do not know the term."

"Oh - it's, um. It means someone or something that's destructive and gets in the way, or that might cause the wrong kind of trouble." She started to pluck a blade of grass, but thought better of it - it was so sparse here in the waste they were riding into. Instead she picked up a small stone and turned it between her fingers as she spoke. "He thinks I need to be watched so I don't do something stupid."

"Ah," the Elf said, nodding. "I do not deem he thinks you 'stupid'," he said after a moment.

She shrugged. "Maybe not stupid," she said. "He's right, I guess, as much as I hate to admit it. I don't know what I'm doing here - I don't know how to fit into Gondor's army, but he really wants me fitting in somewhere."

"Perhaps you should return and fight with your people, then," said Legolas thoughtfully.

"Maybe," she said. "I'd rather be able to see him, though."

"Well, there is time yet to consider it," he said.

She felt more than saw the slight shift of his weight that meant he was going to stand, and she said suddenly, "Legolas."

He hesitated. "Yes?"

"I - have you seen them together? Aragorn and Boromir?"

"Why, of course," he said, his tone perplexed. "Many times."

"No, no," she said. "I mean since we - since we got back to Minas Tirith. And since we left for Mordor. How are they?"

"They are much as they have ever been," he said. "Boromir is Steward now, that much is different, and he wears the role as one born to it. It is clear he recognizes no final authority above his own. But he takes Aragorn's counsel, treats him as comrade, as friend." He paused, then finished with a small shrug, "They are much as always."

She hesitated, then asked what she'd been unable to bring herself to ask Boromir, not now while things were so strained between them. "What about what the heralds have been saying," she said softly, cautiously. "About how King Elessar is here?"

"A ploy," he replied, "unimportant except in that it may give our enemy pause. Boromir agreed to it for he is pragmatist enough to see the sense in it, and realist enough to know that as regards political reality, it is meaningless."

"You say that without rancour," she remarked. "I'd have thought it'd make you angry."

A slight smile graced his lips. "I am of two minds on the matter," he said. "Until Aragorn's claim is made and accepted, none have authority here above the Steward, and Boromir would be remiss in his duty if he surrendered it too soon." He paused, considering, then went on, "For the sake of my people, and for the sake of Aragorn, I would have Boromir make plain his intent, and no plainer could he make it than to swear fealty on the spot. Yet, for the sake of Gondor, and of Boromir himself, I realize he cannot."

"Do you think he will?" she said. "I mean, accept Aragorn's claim?"

The smile faded. "If Frodo and Sam fail in their task," he replied, "it will not matter."

The night of their fifth day out from the Morgul Vale, Maggie sat wakeful in the dark, waiting for Boromir to return. They still weren't talking much, certainly not about their strained relationship, but each night they had lain together, and she'd found comfort in the fact that as they drifted to sleep, their breath would slow as one, would synchronize, even if their thoughts and words didn't. And each morning she woke to his fingers tracing over her skin, his soft smile. It wasn't an answer to the questions neither was asking, but for now, it was enough.

She heard his footsteps approaching, and as he lowered himself to the blanket beside her, a wolf called in the distance, and the answering groan of something she didn't recognize sounded nearby. She scooted closer to Boromir, who slipped his arm around her shoulders.

She pressed into him. "I wonder if the sun will ever rise again," she said softly. "It feels so dark."

He kissed her hair, stroking her shoulder. "It will come," he replied. Then, in the tone of one reciting, he murmured, almost to himself, "'Sunlight chases shadow, nighttime fades away, both of them together make another day.'"

She raised her eyes to his face, and his gaze was far away. "What's that from?" she asked. "Is there more?"

"Hmm?" He glanced at her and smiled. "Oh, a song for children," he said. "My father... was it my father?" He shook his head, his eyes searching the past. "He taught it to me, or part of it, when I was very small, but - I think I taught part to him, and I know not from whom I learned that second part." He frowned.

"Can you remember it?" she asked, and his expression softened.

"I shall try," he said, and after a moment his low voice slipped through the dark, singing softly...

"Step into the shadow,  
step into the sun;  
shadows chase the sunlight,  
see the evening come.  
Sunlight chases shadow,  
nighttime fades away;  
both of them together  
make another day."

He hesitated, searching for the next verse, then with a quick nod of recollection, continued,

"Twilight comes at morning,  
twilight comes at eve,  
gold and silver holding hands,  
in and out they weave."

At the next line, another voice joined in, and though he didn't stop, Boromir looked up to find the singer, and smiled as they finished together,

"Shimmer like a moonbeam,  
glisten like the sun,  
dark and bright and starlight,  
all of them and none."

"Aragorn," he said then. "You know the song?"

"Oh, aye," Aragorn replied, amusement touching his soft voice. "You taught it me."

A startled pause, and Boromir said, "I?"

"One afternoon in the Citadel, when you were very small. But there is another verse, though I have never recalled it entirely. 'The shadow of a raven's wing, the brightness of a blade; dark and light are brothers, woven in a braid.' There is more, I think," he said, "but I am not certain."

"It is lovely," said Boromir, motioning to Aragorn to sit.

"And fitting, I think," Aragorn replied as he joined them. "You and Faramir seem very like the raven and the blade to me," and he paused, then smiled and went on, "though I am uncertain which of you is raven, and which the blade."

Boromir laughed. "Your poetic turn of mind, Ranger," he said. "Faramir, I think, would be blade, for the swiftness of his wit."

"Ah, but the raven is a wily bird," said Aragorn with a grin, "like the Ranger your brother is, and your laughter is bright as the sun on steel." He sighed then, and said, "Would that the times we live in inspired more laughter."

"We find it where we may," Boromir replied with a smile. "Perhaps on the morrow we shall find our times changed for the better."

"May it be so," said Aragorn.

Maggie shifted, looking from one to the other. "So," she said after a moment. "You really were here years ago, like Denethor said."

Aragorn nodded. "I was in Minas Tirith before Boromir was born, and for some time after."

"And y'all have talked about it?"

"At length," said Aragorn with a low chuckle.

"Aragorn has explained to me why he chose not to make his lineage known at the time," Boromir said, then looked at Aragorn questioningly. Aragorn nodded, and he went on, "It was as Faramir had supposed - had Thorongil made a claim then, the Council would not have accepted it, and Ecthelion would have been forced either to go against them, and perhaps spark a civil war, or to forswear his oath and lose his honour."

"I would not have risked such," said Aragorn, "though Gondor called to me then as she does now." He leaned back, looking up at the sky. "I have missed this land my whole long life," he murmured, "save for the few years I dwelt here."

For a moment, Maggie thought Boromir was going to speak, but he didn't, and they sat in companionable silence for a time, watching the stars.

Then, "Look, there," said Aragorn, pointing towards a cluster of stars winking on the horizon. "Soronúmë. The Eagle."

"Messengers from Manwë," said Boromir softly. "I thought it was early in the year for the Eagle to rise."

"Where is it?" asked Maggie, looking for the constellation.

"There," and Boromir pointed, "the bright star just above the hill? The Eagle's eye."

"And there," Aragorn continued, his finger tracing a line from one star to the next, "the wings, and the tail."

"Do you see?" Boromir asked, stroking her hair.

"I think so." She sighed, and leaned into him a little, then started as the voice of something large spoke in the distance.

"Creatures of Sauron, I suppose," said Aragorn with a sigh. "The watch will keep them at bay, but they have followed us for two nights now." He stretched then, and rose. "The hour is late," he said, "and I should take my leave. Rest well, both of you."

After he had gone, Boromir turned to Maggie and said, "I have spoken with Chip about where to place you. He would have you return to your people."

"Wait - what?" Frowning, she scooted back to see him better. "What do you mean, you've spoken with Chip?"

Boromir sighed. "He came to me, Maggie, and asked, in effect, what I had done with you." Smiling ruefully, he added, "I think he worries about you, here amongst strangers."

"And he wants me back with them?" She shook her head, still frowning. "I don't understand. Why would Chip care one way or the other?"

"He made mention of your friend Mira," Boromir replied. "It seems she made him promise to see you came to no harm."

"Ah," and Maggie nodded. "That's Mira. But look," she said, the frown returning. "I don't want to be separated from you. Sorry, but if the world is ending, I don't want to be surrounded by people I barely know."

"Nor do I wish to be separated from you," he replied. "But look." He released her and turned, sketching out a map in the dirt beside the blanket. "Two hills are opposite the Gate," he said, "or so our spies have told us. Aragorn shall hold one, with Gandalf and the Dúnedain, and Éomer, Imrahil and I shall hold the other, with the Tower Guard. The outworlders will stand betwixt, for to place their weapons amongst our soldiers would be too dangerous to our own men, but from here they shall able to join either army if their escape is cut off. If you are with them, you shall yet be near me, and you shall be better able to retreat with them if retreat seems the wiser course." She looked at him doubtfully, and he shook his head. "It is for the best, Maggie, do you not see? You have not trained with the troops who will surround you if you stand with Gondor's army. How can you think to fight amongst people whose weapons and tactics are so unknown to you?"

"Same way I did at Helm's Deep," she said, but her tone was that of someone trying to convince herself.

"At Helm's Deep, you had first the dike and then the Deeping Wall between you and the enemy," he said patiently. "Here, there is naught to hold Sauron's forces at bay but the weapons and mettle of our men. At Helm's Deep the enemy broke upon the wall like the tide, but here, they will sweep over us in a flood. It is more different than you can imagine to fight a flood than a breaking tide."

He put his hand to her chin and turned her to face him. "Love," he said softly, "I cannot command you. You have shown me that without I lock you in chains and send you home, you will do as you will do. If I cannot command you, then I cannot have you in my command." He kissed her softly to stay the words that she'd opened her mouth to speak. "And could I command you," he went on when he released her, "I would command you to return to your people, for you understand better how to fight with them. I want you alive," he said firmly, "even more than I want you with me."

She hesitated, then brought her hand to his face, cupping his cheek, and he pressed into her touch. "I love you," she said finally. "And you're right." She sighed, and shook her head. "Boromir, I'm sorry. I just - " but she stopped, then finished, "Just come back to me, okay?"

He pulled her into a firm embrace. "If there is anything that could keep me from you, I have not met it yet."

Maggie stood between Michael and and a lanky woman with the unlikely name of Babe, Cassandra behind them, watching Chip ride forward with the guard. He was uncomfortable on horseback, but it had been decided that he should be present when they challenged Sauron, if only in case they had to change their battle strategy because of some unexpected parley. The heralds' cry was clear, even as far back as they stood, when they challenged the Lord of the Black Land to come out to them, but nothing moved. Long moments passed in silence, but just as the Captains moved to turn back, drums rolled in the mountains and horns rang out, louder than at Helm's Deep, shaking the earth. The Black Gate opened, and Maggie, Michael, Babe, and Cassandra all raised binoculars to their eyes as a small company of black-clad soldiers rode out, something monstrous at its head. Maggie increased the magnification to get a better look, and scowled at what she saw, lowering the binoculars.

"It's like something out of a horror vid," Cassandra muttered, lowering her glass as well. "Is it real?"

"I think it must be," said Michael. "They don't exactly have advanced holo technology in these parts."

Maggie raised the binoculars again, focusing on the faces she knew - Aragorn, Boromir, Chip. The emissary from Sauron laughed, a sound surprisingly human from something that seemed so alien, and then spoke. She couldn't make out his words, but his tone was mocking as he spoke to Aragorn. She watched them watch each other, and though Aragorn neither spoke nor moved, the emissary suddenly drew back, his skeletal mount dancing and rearing up as he jerked at the black reigns. This time she could hear him when he cried out, "I am a herald and ambassador, and may not be assailed!"

Babe snorted. "Puss," she said scornfully. "That guy he was talking to didn't even fuckin' move! What 'assailed'?"

Maggie chuckled. "Indeed. Hard to get good help these days, I guess."

"I dunno," Michael said. "I was with Chip for some of the planning, and Aragorn's got this look he can give you - it's pretty freakish."

Maggie glanced at him. "Freakish how? What happened?"

"Oh, Chip got snarky with him about some stuff - was saying we shouldn't be bothering with this but should see if we could get someone inside to just take Sauron out, and you know how Chip can be when he gets an idea of what he wants to do."

"Quite the alpha male," said Cassandra.

"So I don't even remember what Aragorn said," Michael went on, "but he turned this look on Chip, and you could just see, not only did you not want to fuck with this guy, you seriously understood that whatever he was telling you to do was exactly what you wanted to do."

"Really," said Maggie thoughtfully, turning her gaze back to the allies and the emissary. They watched as the emissary turned to Gandalf, and after a time held out something, they couldn't see what. It had an effect on those who faced the black-clad spokesman, though, and shortly thereafter there were raised voices.

"Come on," said Michael. "Things are getting hot." He turned, gave a quick hand signal and then the squad leaders and their squads were falling into position. Tension sang in the air around her, and she wondered whether it was any different for the troops of Gondor, Dol Amroth, Rohan.

A few minutes later the emissary and his soldiers were racing back towards the gate, and the gate was swinging open wide, releasing a torrent of troops while more spilled down from either side, and more still flowed in from the southeast. A great cry went up on both sides, ally and enemy giving voice, and then Maggie heard the distinctive thrum of the rocket launchers, and where they hit the explosions shook the earth, throwing up plumes of dirt and the bodies of the enemy soldiers. The tide seemed to falter, and then another volley from the rocket launchers threw up another quintet of earthshaking explosions, thickening the air around the enemy with dust and smoke. Maggie searched the field quickly, saw the armies of Middle-earth gathering around the hills of rubble, one with the banner of Gondor, and the other the banners of Rohan and Dol Amroth - Tree and Stars, the White Horse, and the Silver Swan, gleaming in the cold light of the morning. She couldn't see Boromir.

Another volley of rockets tore earth and bodies asunder, and then the enemy forces, as though at some command, surged forward again, though not so eagerly nor with so loud a cry. Chip, on foot now, came pelting back to them as a fourth volley was loosed. When he reached them the machine gunners began to fire, and through the sight of her M16 Maggie saw, again, the faces of the enemy.

The battle was unlike anything she had experienced. The machine gun fire on the walls of Minas Tirith had seemed almost a comforting sound, thick and heavy where she had knelt protected by stone. But here, on the ground, Black Riders circling overhead and raining despair, and the enemy closing; seeing the carnage being wrought by enemy and ally alike, and hearing the clash of steel on steel and the meaty thud of blade and arrow into flesh - the effect was overwhelming, and the rapid-fire weapons only added to her sense of unreality. She had no idea how much time had passed, or how long she had been crouched by this shoulder-high stone at the base of the hill where Aragorn had raised the standard of Gondor. Minutes? Hours? She picked off enemy soldiers one by one with a sense of detached perplexity.

Then behind her she heard the _thup_ of a grenade launcher, saw the missile lob overhead and land at the feet of a mountain troll that stood momentarily devoid of combatants. The explosion tore into the lower half of the creature's body, and its scream sounded like the very voice of the mountains that had been its home, deep and raw and echoing, yanking her back to reality with its agony. It fell, but did not die, and lay shrieking in the mud, huge hands clutching at the place where its legs used to be, and Maggie raised the M16, sighted, and fired three rounds into its head. It jerked and was still, its eyes open and staring at the sky.

"Good girl." Babe's voice behind her. "Those things are a bitch to bring down, but I hate to see anything suffer like that."

Maggie turned to her, opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing. After a moment the other woman reached out one hand to brush the wetness that streaked Maggie's face. Maggie didn't know whether it was tears or blood or sweat that she touched, her gaze strange; smelled leather and metal on the whisper of Babe's glove.

Babe paused then, listening to something, and Maggie remembered that just over half of Chip's people had headsets, saw Babe's hidden in the tangles that had escaped her wheat-colored ponytail. "Got it," she said into the throat mic, then turned to Maggie. "Remember, green flare means fall back to the trucks, red means the trucks are a loss, fall back to whichever defender's flag you can get to. I'm heading there -" and she pointed to an outcropping of stone some thirty yards away. "Grace and Adam are there - Adam's hurt, and I'm gonna help Grace get him to the trucks."

"Need me?" Maggie asked.

Babe shook her head. "We can get him. Might give me some covering fire, though."

"Sure thing," Maggie said, and when Babe had reached the outcropping, turned her attention back to the fight around her.

For a moment, it was like watching a movie. Pale sunlight filtered through high clouds and shone dully on the mail and weapons of the combatants. Here, cavalry carved bloody swaths through the advancing line of Southrons; there, orcs fell like a landslide out of the hills onto Gondorian footsoldiers, who rushed to meet it as though by sheer force of will they could hold back the crush. She could see the outline of the dance, saw one soldier fall and another turn to replace him, a third kneeling swiftly at his side, the others blocking them from attack. Then they were hidden from her sight, swallowed by the battle.

To her right she saw the standards of Dol Amroth and Rohan, and was struck by how still they seemed - no wind caught them up, and they hung listless but bright in the grey air. She caught her breath to see Boromir there, the black and silver of his tunic shining like shadow and cold fire, and she wondered suddenly why he fought under the standard of Dol Amroth when, to her left, nearer than she'd realized, was the standard of Gondor, the glittering stars winking from the folds of the black silk. Beneath it on the side of the hill, the silhouette of Aragorn - she knew the flash of that sword, could hear his rage as he cut down an enemy, stepped forward to meet the next.

Suddenly there was shouting, but when Maggie could make out the words they made no sense to her - the eagles were coming? She looked around, looked up, and saw a long line of birds, their wings broad as a jet's, rushing down out of the sky towards the Black Riders who circled overhead. The Riders wheeled away, back towards the gate, but before Maggie could even smile at this turn of events, she heard a scream and the armored body of a Gondorian soldier whose neck had been cut nearly through fell to the ground a few yards in front of her. Unthinking, Maggie raised her gun and fired at the enemy who had struck him, and saw the shocked expression on the man's face - 'a Southron,' she thought to herself, and he clutched at his throat where one of her rounds had struck. There was only blood and meat there now as he fell atop the Gondorian, and she had a sudden recollection of the man she'd killed at the dike at Helm's Deep, the wet sounds he had made as he'd died, sounds that both the Southron and the Gondorian made now. The battle which had seemed so huge only seconds ago now shrank to two men, the only two things in the world, dead and dying in front of her until white sparkled her vision and with a sharp exhalation of breath she rose and started forward, meaning to pull the dead Southron off the Gondorian if she could, though she knew there was nothing she could do for him except keep him from dying with the weight of his enemy's body pressing him to the earth. Then a sudden and terrible jolt staggered her, her rifle clattering to the ground at her feet. Startled, she clutched her right arm, only then seeing the feathered shaft that protruded from her shoulder.

"Oh, goddamn it," she muttered, snatching her hand away from the thing opening her flesh. Then a second jolt and her left leg collapsed beneath her, and she fell hard to the ground, catching herself with her left hand, feeling something crunch in her wrist and opening her palm on a stone. Still cursing, she looped the strap of her rifle around her left arm and scrambled awkwardly backwards towards the rock she'd been crouched beside, adrenaline singing in her veins. Her back to the stone, she tried to bring the rifle up to bear, but it was impossibly awkward with one injured hand, and she couldn't get her right arm under her control.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck," she muttered, a mantra as she pressed herself into a hollow in the stone. Another string of curses tumbled from her lips as she saw the shaft that had struck her in the meat of her left thigh, and she felt a wave of dizziness wash over her. She couldn't stay here - the battle continued around her, and she knew she wouldn't remain unnoticed for long. She could use her right hand, but her arm was impossibly weak, and she couldn't raise it; her left arm was uninjured, but her left hand hand was hampered by whatever she'd done to her wrist, and she couldn't grip, couldn't hold the rifle. She cast about for an ally, for one of Chip's people who might help her back to the trucks, but saw no one. Still cursing, but soundlessly now, needing her breath, she shifted the rifle into a vertical position, muzzle to the ground, pulled her right foot in close and levered herself to a one-legged crouch, then hooked her left arm over the butt of the rifle. From there she tried to stand, glancing up barely in time to see the dark visage of an Orc surging towards her, spiked blade raised.

Eyes wide, she collapsed to the ground again, avoiding the first stroke and struggling helplessly to grip the heavy gun with her injured left hand, struggling to make her right arm obey. Her back to the stone, she had no place to retreat to, and as the blade descended she kicked out with her uninjured right leg, the edge of the sword cutting into the leather of her boot, stopped by the steel in the front of the sole. With a snarl, the orc wrenched it loose and brought it around in a gleaming arc for her throat, and she knew she was going to die. She wondered whether it would hurt. The arrows hadn't hurt.

But the blade never reached her, a blood-darkened sword clashing against it, parrying the killing blow and delivering one of its own, the creature falling backwards, headless. She looked up to find the face of the one who had saved her, but he was shadowed against the watery brightness of the sky. She felt sick, and stunned, and tried again to find a way to raise the rifle as he turned to battle another Orc. Blood spattered her, and she tugged her left leg up, bracing it against her right and struggling to rest the weapon on her knees but it was too heavy, too awkward, and she could only wait. Her heart pounded, adrenaline still coursing through her, the knife edge of panic bringing everything into crystal focus, and she watched the soldier and his enemy cut and parry, that intricate dance that had seemed so beautiful and now was only ugly fear and death.

The orc fell, twitching, to the ground. The solider hesitated, scanning the field, then turned and crouched beside her. "You left them in - good." Swift, efficient hands probed her wounds, and he said, "Lie quiet. These will not kill you, but if you struggle, you could lose too much blood, and that might."

Distantly she could hear Gandalf crying "Stand, Men of the West! Stand and wait! This is the hour of doom!"

She gasped when he pressed his fingers to the bones in her wrist, and then the ground shook, and stones began to fall from above. Quickly he wrapped his arm around her waist and half dragged her away from the rock; in the distance the Towers of the Teeth groaned.

They watched as these bastions of Sauron's might began to list towards each other, and a great rolling rumble sounded. Dust climbed in the air around the towers, billowing upwards as though clawing towards the teeth that lined their pinnacles, and with a noise like the death of a world, the towers started to fall. Below them, barely visible through the plumes of smoke and dust, orcs and men scrambled to escape their slow and terrible collapse, and the black towers, once solid and heavy as hate, crashed together and fell into rubble.

Around them, the battle which had raged came suddenly to stillness. Looking to the east they saw a huge shadow rising in the sky above where the towers had been, lightning flickering about the crest, and it hung there over them like a shroud of malice. Maggie felt as though it would reach down and crush them in darkness if it could. But a wind rose up, caught the shadow, and in moments had swept it away. As Maggie watched, disbelieving - could a wind simply blow such a thing away? - the creatures of Sauron began fleeing back towards the ruined gate, some throwing themselves on their own weapons, and she found herself curling into the arm of the one who held her, and her gaze fell on the symbol of a white tree on his gauntlets. She raised her face to look at him.

"Thank you," she said. "He had me."

"He did at that," said Aragorn with a smile. "But Boromir would have had words for me had I let you die."

She nodded, feeling dizzy. "So, is it done, then?"

"Aye, it is done," he replied, and his voice sounded like rain after a drought, terrible relief. "It is done."

"That's good," she said, the edges of her vision growing dark. She felt lightheaded. "Is it going to be a big problem if I pass out?"

"What?"

"Faint? Is it okay if I faint now?"

When he answered, he seemed far away. "It would be better if you did not," he said, leaning her forward, but it was too late, and the world sparkled, then winked out.

When she opened her eyes again, she was being carried, and the pain in her shoulder, her thigh, her hand came rushing towards her. She gave a soft cry, and Aragorn said, "Not far."

She squirmed in his grip, wanting her feet on the ground and feeling suddenly ill. "Down," she murmured. "I'm going to be sick."

He stood her on her feet, all her weight on her right leg, and said, "No, fight it, now. Arm around my shoulders."

Dizzy, she almost fell, bending over and dropping her head forward, swallowing convulsively. After a moment the queasiness retreated.

"Come," he said, helping her upright again. "It is not far."

They reached a spot on the field where others were laid out, wounds being bandaged, and Aragorn passed her into the keeping of a man who wore the symbol of the Houses of Healing, pressing his hand quickly to her cheek and saying, "Do as they tell you; I will get word to Boromir that you are here."

Then he was gone, and the man was helping her to a blanket, lowering her to the ground. "I'm sick," she said, struggling vaguely against him, worried she wouldn't be able to keep from soiling him, and he said something to someone else, then put a warm cup to her lips. "Drink this," he said. "It will settle your stomach, and help the pain."

She drank, the liquid bitter but not unpleasant.

"Better?" he asked when she had finished.

She nodded.

"Lie back," he said. "Someone will see to your wounds, but lie still."

She closed her eyes, and tried not to listen to the sounds of the people around her. She wondered whether any of her own were here. Slowly, after what seemed a long time, she felt a sluggish lethargy begin to take her, the pain in her limbs floating into the distance. She opened her eyes again, saw what seemed a dream, the silvery bright sky, people moving about, none she recognized. She wondered idly whether anything was real, tried experimentally to move her arm, but couldn't tell whether she succeeded. After a while she closed her eyes again, and drifted into darkness.

It was too bright, and her shoulder and her thigh felt as though they were on fire. Flashes of light illuminated a strange and alien landscape as she tried to open her eyes, and voices ebbed and flowed around her, but in her dream, Boromir held her, singing softly, a song she didn't know. "Whatever the Valar intend me to do, there's naught with the power to keep me from you," he sang, his voice for her alone. "Whatever I grieve for, whatever I rue, there's naught with the power to keep me from you...."

She stirred in her dream, tried to speak, but he didn't see, his eyes closed. "I stand on the line when the shadow creeps in, but I will be with you before day begins," he sang, his voice breaking. "We harry the dark and we weep for our sins, but I will be with you before day begins."

"Boromir," she said, or thought she said, trying to open her eyes.

"She wakes," Boromir said, and she wondered who he was talking to.

A muttered curse in a voice she didn't recognize. "There is no time," the voice said. "Hold her still."

Hands on her, and then a searing pain. She heard a scream, heard her own voice cursing, tried to struggle against the hands that held her, heard Boromir's voice saying urgently, "Be still, Maggie, he has to cut the arrow out," and then she fell back into red darkness.

Her eyes opening, someone helping her to sit. White bandages on her thigh, her hand. She saw whiteness out of the corner of her eye, bandages wrapping her shoulder. The pain was fierce. "Drink," Boromir's voice, his hand holding a cup to her lips. "Come love, it will help you to sleep."

She shook her head, but he was insistent, one hand on her back, the other tipping the liquid into her mouth, and she drank. Again, bitter, but sweet, and strong, like something foul that they had tried to make palatable by mixing in honey, and she thought she smelled chamomile.

"Lie back," he said, and she tried to take his hand in hers.

Her vision was strange, and she could make out only his shadow, blurry, but his scent was his own, and comforted her. "Don't go," she murmured, closing her eyes again.

"I am here," he said softly. "I shall be here when you wake."

She didn't know how much later it was, but thought maybe not too long, for Boromir still held her, and she felt his lips on her forehead. "Maggie," he said softly. "Will you wake now, please? Will you please wake now?"

She felt his hand in hers, and tried to squeeze it, turned her face towards the sound of his voice. Opening her mouth, she said "How long?" but no sound emerged.

He had seen, though, it seemed, for he answered, "Many hours, love," and she could hear joy in his tone. "Many hours, but are you with me now? How do you feel?"

After a moment, she managed to open her eyes, and saw him above her, blurry until she blinked a few times. "Like I've been hit by a truck and haven't slept in two weeks," she answered at last. "Where am I?"

"Near North Ithilien," he replied, "though not far enough from the Morannon for my liking. The battle is long over. Your wounds have been tended, and you were given something to make you sleep, but you have slept somewhat past what I was told you would, and I -" he smiled slightly. "I became concerned."

"How are - did we - are we all right?"

"The day is won," he said. "The Ringbearer succeeded, against all chance, and the day is won."

"Our people," she said, trying to sit up. "How did we fare?"

He pressed her gently back down. "Time enough for that when you feel a bit stronger," he said.

"No, now," she said, as insistently as she could.

He frowned. then replied, "Of the members of our Fellowship who rode with us, all are accounted for and live. Of your people, I have not a count of the wounded, and know not if any were killed. I know that your friend Michael yet lives, and he may be able to tell you more, but not before you have rested."

She nodded, subsiding somewhat. "Do you know if Chip's alive, or Gus?"

"I know not," he replied. "But I would have you rest more, if you can."

"Boromir," she said, "were you singing to me, just then?"

He looked at her quizzically. "Some hours ago, when Aragorn brought me to you."

She smiled. "It was a lovely song. You know more songs than you said."

"All for children," he replied, stroking her hair back from her face. "But rest now."

Frowning then, she said, "Aragorn?" remembering something, but not sure what.

He nodded. "'Twas Aragorn who stopped the blow that would have killed you, though how he got to you in time I know not, for all I saw him do it. I could not reach you, but he was closer." Boromir smiled then and said, "He moves quickly for an old man."

"An old man, eh?" Aragorn knelt beside them then, grinning. "How fares the patient?"

"Obstinate as usual," Boromir replied. "I tell her to rest, and she asks after you."

"A good sign," said Aragorn, and Boromir shot him an annoyed glance. "That she is obstinate, I mean," he said quickly. "I mean that she is herself, no longer in the waking sleep she seemed at first." He turned to Maggie then and said, "But Boromir is right, you should rest. And I expect you to do so."

"There, the healer has spoken," said Boromir as Aragorn departed. "You will do as he says, as all good patients do, if you follow not my commands."

"Boromir," she said softly, and he shook his head, smiling ruefully.

"Hush, love," he said, "I mean no ill."

"But you were right, and I was right," she said, struggling to drag her thoughts out of the mire of sleep. "You were right, but - I'm - I'm - "

"You are weary, Maggie," he said firmly, touching his finger to her lips. "Hush now, and rest."

*******  
_A/N: Huge thanks to the lovely people who answered my plea for medical information - Lyllyn, Chris, Ithilwen, and lindorien were all wonderfully helpful. To the extent I got it right, it's thanks to them; to the extent I didn't, 'tis all on me. Lines spoken by the Mouth of Sauron and Gandalf are from ROTK: "The Black Gate Opens" and "The Field of Cormallen", respectively._


	20. Sunlight And Rain

I don't own any part of LOTR and I'm certainly making no money from this, but I'm more grateful to Mr. Tolkien than I can say for creating such a rich world that so many people want to engage with it themselves. [See previous chapters for other disclaimers and notes.]

**An End To Innocence**

**Chapter Twenty: Sunlight and Rain**

"You don't understand, I'm not used to this!"

"I _do_ understand. Do you think I have never been injured and bed-ridden in all my years of fighting the Shadow?"

Maggie pouted for a moment, then realized what she was doing and schooled her expression to one of more dignified irritation. "But come on," she said. "My wrist is better - it wasn't even a sprain! Couldn't I use a crutch or something?"

Boromir nodded at her left hand and she obediently held it out for inspection. His fingers on her wrist were warm and gentle, but firm, probing the small bones and tendons in her wrist, pushing hard on the heel of her hand, bending it backwards, forwards, testing. She winced when he pressed on the bandage that covered the cut on her palm, and he caught her gaze. "This will make using a crutch difficult."

"But not impossible. It's closed up," she said hopefully, "just sore. And look, the cut's way up here. If I put my weight on the heel...." She demonstrated. "Even the healer said it was okay."

He shot her an amused but wary glance. "Did he say you were well enough to be up?" he asked.

She shrugged, and murmured, "He didn't say I wasn't."

Chuckling softly he patted her hand and released it. "I will see what I can do," he said. "But I make no promises - if the healer tells me you should remain in bed, you shall."

So it was that some time later Maggie was learning to walk with the aid of a crutch, her right arm in a sling, her left leg heavily bandaged. She felt as though it had been a month since she'd moved from her pallet, and the spring day into which she emerged from the hospital tent was a shock. She stood outside the tent and looked around at the Field of Cormallen. There was no sign of the men and women who had come with Chip to fight in this strange place; after the battle, they'd taken the trucks and headed back to Minas Tirith with their wounded. They would have Janet send them home, and Michael would return later to talk with Gandalf about Sorrow.

Fourteen of them, including Chip, were buried on the field. 

Michael had wanted to take their dead home, but even with their own world in disarray, so many dead of such clearly unnatural causes would have gotten the attention of even the most overworked and underpaid authorities. Instead they lay with the Gondorian and Rohirric soldiers they'd fought beside.

Michael had come to see her before they'd gone. "We lost a lot of good people, Maggie," he'd said, sitting beside her, his chin in his hand.

"I know," she'd said. "I'm sorry."

He'd nodded, and after a moment had said, "Chip gave me command before he died. Whole fucking thing's mine again, only without Chip this time." He sighed and shook his head, then went on. "I've still got Gus, so that's good. Cassandra, too, and Tina." He paused, taking a breath. "I'm glad Tank was too hurt to come - he's got experience, I'd hate to have lost him."

Maggie hadn't known what to say, so she'd stayed silent.

"The deal's still good," Michael said finally. "You wanna come home, the farm's there, you can live there as long as you want." He'd caught her gaze then, and had said, "I'd rather you came back to New Washington again, though. We could use you. Even if we get rid of Sorrow, there's a lot of work to do."

"I know," she'd said, and glanced away. 

After a moment he'd said, "The body armor did a pretty good job."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Most of the injuries are relatively minor. The ones who died mostly died from head and neck trauma." He was quiet again, then said, "It's real different fighting like that than fighting at home."

She'd nodded. "Yeah, it really is."

A long silence had passed, too familiar to be awkward, and he'd risen, and said, "You can come back with us now if you want. Mira'll want to see you."

She'd shaken her head. "Not now," she'd said. "I'll see you when you get back."

He'd hesitated, then nodded. "Right then. Well, take care of yourself. I've got to sort out some things at home, but I'll be back in a couple of weeks. Three maybe."

"Sure thing," she'd said. "I'll look for you."

And he'd gone.

Now she stood in the sunlight and watched the activity going on all around, and wondered where she belonged.

Pippin found her sitting on a broad stone in the late afternoon sunlight near the Steward's pavilion.

"Maggie!" he said brightly, and she turned at the sound of his voice.

"Hey there," she said with a smile.

"I heard you made it through the battle," he said, coming to sit beside her, "but they said nothing of you being wrapped up like a parcel. Should you be out of bed?"

She chuckled softly. "Well, that's not clear. I made it this far, but I thought I'd rest a while before trying to get back. How are you? I heard you killed a troll."

Pippin made a sound. "And almost myself in the process."

"Never the less," she said, "a troll. No mean feat. And Mister Baggins and Mister Gamgee - we've got a lot to thank them for, too. They're awake, I heard."

"There's been such a fuss over them," said Pippin genially. "I think they're quite flustered by it. Sam especially." He glanced at her sideways and grinned. "And if he heard you call him 'Mister Gamgee' he'd blush as red as ever you please."

"Well," she said with a smile and a shrug, "we've not been introduced yet, so I can hardly be on a first name basis with them."

"But you must meet them soon. I've told them all about you."

Startled, she turned to him. "You have?"

"Of course!" he replied, matching her startled expression. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, no reason I guess," she said. "I just never thought of myself as particularly interesting, especially in comparison to what they've done."

"You know," said Pippin, "I think they like being distracted from the memory of what they've done."

She nodded. "Yeah, I guess they would. Hey," she said after a moment, "do you know if Boromir - I mean - have - "

"Have they seen him?" asked Pippin. "They have, only this very afternoon."

She hesitated, then said cautiously, "How'd it go?"

Pippin smiled. "You must promise not to say I told you," but he continued without waiting for her promise. "They wept, the two of them, Frodo and Boromir both," and his voice was gentle. "I wish you could have seen. You know, Frodo understood about the Ring."

"Did he?" she asked.

Pippin nodded. "At the end, you know, he put it on. Took it for his own, just as Boromir tried to do. It was Gollum who saved us all. He bit right through Frodo's finger and fell into the pit." Pippin's voice wavered, and he drew a deep shuddering breath.

Maggie touched his shoulder briefly, and quick caress. "But Frodo's still with us," she said. "And Sam. They made it out."

"Yes," he said, "yes they did," and he looked at her and smiled. "And I think Frodo and Boromir - well, I think they'll be friends."

Maggie smiled. "I'm glad."

"I am too," Pippin said. "I think Sam will come 'round in time as well."

Glancing at him, Maggie said, "Sam's not much on Boromir?"

"Sam is overprotective of Frodo," Pippin replied.

"Well," she said, "I can understand. I feel that way about some folks."

Pippin laughed. "That you do," he said, "or you'd have stayed in the City as you were asked." He patted her arm as she shot him an amused and irritated glance. "They'll be all right in the end," he went on. "I think it's more important that Frodo and Boromir understand each other."

"Why is that?"

"Well," said Pippin, "I think it might help them both. Both having been under the spell of that thing, you know. I think they're the only ones alive who have been."

Maggie nodded, then raised her face towards the sun, her eyes closed. "It's hard to believe everything's over," she said. "It was so dark for so long, and now...."

"Yes," said Pippin. "Though for us Shirefolk it's more like things returning to normal after a terrible storm. This is more what we're used to, this peace."

"Is it?" she said, turning to him. "I'm glad for you."

After a moment, Pippin said softly, "It isn't what you're used to, is it," and it wasn't a question.

"No," she replied, shaking her head. "No, it isn't."

"Well, maybe now that the last battle is done here, Gandalf might be able to help you."

"I hope so," she said, and her voice turned bitter. "Almost half our people died at the Black Gate, trying to help this world. I really, really fucking hope so."

He took her hand in his. "Maggie," he said gently. "I'm so sorry. All my friends live, and yours - you lost so many."

She shrugged and in a rough voice said, "I hardly knew most of them, I don't know why I'm -" but she stopped then and clasped his hand tightly. After a long time she said, "They knew what they were doing," and bit her lip against the tears that threatened. "They weren't innocents - they were big boys and girls. They knew what they were doing." 

"Makes it no easier, though, does it."

She was quiet for a time, then said, "I couldn't tell you, Pippin. I've never known anyone who died innocent. I don't know what that's like."

He didn't answer, and long minutes passed in silence. Finally Pippin turned slightly and slipped his arm around her shoulders. After a while, he said softly, "The Riders of Rohan sing songs for their dead. In Gondor, they say memorials and build grand houses for them. What do your people do?"

She shrugged. "We bury them in the ground, or burn them and scatter the ashes. Here, we buried them."

He nodded, and said, "Will you build a memorial?"

"I hadn't thought that far," she said, then went on, "I guess at home they'll have a memorial service. I don't know what we'll do here. Right now, their mound is marked with an M16 and the flag of United North America."

"That's your kingdom, like Gondor?"

She smiled. "Only we don't have kings."

"Do you miss it?" he asked, and she glanced at him.

"From what I've told you about it, would you miss it?"

He paused, considering, then said, "If it were my home, well, yes. I suppose I would."

She nodded. "Well," she said, "I suppose I do."

Boromir came to her late in the day, finding her seated outside the tent where her pallet lay. "You just missed Pippin," she said. "He's gone to find Merry and Frodo and Sam."

Boromir sat down beside her. "I must leave for Minas Tirith in the morning," he said. "There is much to be done there, and," he hesitated. "I am more needed there than here."

"Oh," she said. "Well, okay. Um," and she shot him a curious glance. "Have you decided? What to do about - about Aragorn?"

"I believe so," he replied. "I shall confer with Faramir first, but," and he hesitated. After a time he said, "I believe his claim is sound, and though his line was rejected when last it was tried, that would be only an excuse to reject an unworthy claimant, not a reason to reject a worthy one."

Maggie waited quietly to see if he would continue. The sounds of the evening were a comforting music in the background, and in the distance she could hear the muted voice of the Anduin as it flowed southwards.

"And he is worthy," said Boromir at last. "He did not abandon Gondor when any might have. He would have died on the Morannon before he let our people fall." He paused, stroking a lock of hair back from Maggie's face. "What I told you before, as we rode from Isengard, was true then and remains so. My oath binds me, and my heart bids me accept him. He is worthy."

Maggie took his hand in hers and kissed it, then leaned forward and pressed her lips to his cheek, then his mouth. "Was it a hard decision, finally?" she asked after a moment.

He smiled gently and replied, "No, it was a far easier decision than I had supposed it would be." He looked up, away towards the rising moon. "In his youth he served Gondor," he said, "and though he knew he would die, he stood at the Black Gate and challenged Sauron, for Gondor. For Gondor and the West alone, not for his own glory, for he had no promise that he would ever claim the throne, nor any live to remember the deed." He laughed then and said, "And if that had not been enough, he stood between you and your murderers, and saved your life. How could I refuse him after that?"

She chuckled and squeezed his hand. "Well," she said, "have you told him yet?"

Still smiling, he shook his head. "Nay, I have not," he said. "For there is protocol to be observed. He must come to the Gate, and I must ask the Men of Gondor if they will have him be their king. Were I to tell Aragorn beforehand, it would spoil the surprise. Particularly if the Men of Gondor were to refuse."

Startled, she looked at him. "Do you think they would?"

"Oh, no," said Boromir firmly, shaking his head. "No, they shall accept him."

She nodded, and they sat in companionable silence for a time. Finally, Maggie said, "So, you're going back to Minas Tirith tomorrow."

"Yes," he said.

"Am I coming with you?" she asked, and he met her gaze, amusement in his eyes.

"Now you ask? I had thought you would tell me, sweet."

She frowned and punched him lightly on his shoulder. "Gimme a break," she said. "I'm trying, here."

He laughed and ruffled her hair affectionately. "You are, you are," he said. "But no, I do not think you can sit a horse well enough, with your injuries. But know that I shall miss you every moment," he said, pulling her close to him and kissing her cheek. "Perhaps when the healers say you are ready, you might return with one of the wagons that travels between here and the City."

Smiling, she pressed into his touch. "I like that idea. So how early do you have to leave?" she asked.

"Oh, not too early. I shall see you 'ere I go."

"I guess it'd be a bad idea for me to stay with you tonight, huh?" she asked. "Even just to sleep?"

He hesitated, then said regretfully, "I fear so, sweet. 'Tis one thing to share my bed when we are in the Citadel, or riding with an army to certain doom, but something else here on the open field, with the healers, and the celebrations, and all those who ride between Cormallen and the City. Now doom is past, people have time for gossip."

She sighed, then said, "I understand," leaning gently against him. "And I'll miss you too."

It was raining when she woke. She lay in the dim quiet, listening to the sounds of the people sleeping around her - soft breathing, soft movements. She wondered if any of them were awake. There had been talk, initially, of putting her in a separate tent, but the demands of propriety had been outweighed by the demands of their resources, so a sheet had been hung between her bed and the beds of the men with whom she shared the tent. She was glad she hadn't been put someplace apart. As much time as she'd spent in bed, she thought she'd have gone out of her mind if she hadn't had at least the sounds of other people around her, even if most of them were too shy, or too concerned with appearances, to engage her in conversation. 

She watched the shadows ripple over the sheet that parted her from the others, luminous grey-white in the approaching dawn, and smiled to herself to remember how difficult she'd always found it at home to wake up in the mornings. There, she would stay up until long past midnight, sometimes until dawn broke, and would sleep past noon if she could. Now it seemed she could hardly sleep past sunrise.

Rain drummed on the heavy fabric of the tent. Idly she touched the bandage on her shoulder, then stretched her good arm behind her head, her fingers curling in towards her palm. Her mind drifted over half-formed thoughts and snippets of conversations, and beneath them she felt the strange pull of this place struggling with the pull of home. It was always like this in the early hours, when she had nothing to keep her mind at bay, and wasn't yet awake enough to push the hard choices back beneath the surface of her thoughts. Tears would well and subside, and her heart would ache first with the thought of staying, and then with the thought of leaving. 

She had unbidden fantasies of Boromir coming home with her. As if watching a movie in her mind, she would see him with her in her apartment, waking with her, would see the aghast reactions of the people she had to deal with there as he brought his command to bear on them, aghast but compliant in the face of his determination and will. She would smile to herself to imagine him dressed in jeans and tee-shirt, eyeing the cars suspiciously, considering whether or not he was willing to ride in one; would smile more gently to imagine him sitting on the steps of her building, conferring with the cat who, she was sure, would adore him on sight.

She found it difficult to believe how strongly the longing for home would sometimes strike her. She didn't understand how it could be that she could miss so deeply a place that was so hard, so difficult, so heartbreaking. She'd given it up, or had thought she had, when she gave the farm to Chip, but now - now she longed for home, and she longed for Boromir to go there with her, and help her. Help them.

But she knew it was impossible. His brother, his father, and now his king, all were here, and beneath and surrounding it all was Gondor. He would never leave Gondor, and she would never ask him to. She wanted everything - her love, her home, her life; and this home, this life. 

No one could have everything.

Dawn had broken as she'd lain there thinking, and trying not to think. Pale, watery light filtered into the tent, and she could hear people stirring outside, getting ready for the day. Footsteps approached, and she saw the heavy silhouette of Boromir outlined against the grey-white morning as he entered the tent. She smiled as he came and knelt beside her bed, leaned over and kissed her, cool rainwater on her skin.

"Good morning," she murmured.

He smiled. "Wet morning," he replied. "A poor day for traveling, but not so poor that I must wait for the morrow."

"Can I talk you into waiting anyway?" she asked with a soft smile, and he shook his head.

"Nay, sweet, I must see to my duties, and they take me home."

A sudden ache clutched Maggie's heart, and she turned her face away, trying to compose herself before the tears that threatened could emerge. His hand on her cheek turned her to him, though, and to his worried expression.

"What is it?" he asked. "Have I said something amiss? I shall be there when you arrive, sweet, you know that. It will not be long."

"It's not that," she whispered, shaking her head. "It's - duty. And home." But her voice broke and she didn't continue.

She didn't need to. "Ah," he said. "Home." There was a long silence, his fingers stroking her face. "You have your duties as well, love, I know that," he said at last. "Any of them that I can face with you, I will, but please, make no final decisions until we can - until we can make them together."

She nodded, turning her face to his hand and kissing his fingers. "I won't," she murmured. "Listen, you should go," she said, meeting his gaze at last. "You've got a long ride ahead of you."

He hesitated, then leaned in again and kissed her gently. "I do love you, you know," he said.

She smiled. "I love you too."

"I shall see you in the White City," he said as he stood, and with a last, soft caress of her face, he turned and went out again, the curtain of the tent door falling shut behind him, his shadow on the fabric turning hazy, and then gone.

After a time she sat up and slipped into the tunic that lay at the foot of the bed, and pulled on the loose trousers she'd taken to wearing since her injury. Leggings were too snug over the bandages, and skirts too cumbersome. The trousers were baggy and comfortable, and she slid her feet into her boots before taking the crutch and rising. As quietly as she could she limped outside to stand under the canopy of the tent. Above, the sky was pewter-bright. The field was turning marshy, rain running off the tents and pavilions, coming down in silvery sheets and soaking the people who hurried back and forth from one shelter to another. She stood there, leaning on the crutch, feeling her breath in her lungs and the slow hot track of uncertain tears on her face, and watched the rain come down from the brightening sky.

It had only been days since Boromir's departure, but to Maggie it felt like weeks. She was getting around better, and was chafing to be doing something, yet she was still unable to walk without a crutch, and her right arm was weak and painful to use, so she spent most of her time with one or more of the Hobbits. Pippin had apparently taken it upon himself to see that she didn't get too lonely, and often, just as she was starting to feel bereft, she'd glance up at the sound of his voice calling to her, and would see him coming across the field with Merry in tow, or he'd take her by the hand and insist she join him with Frodo, Sam, and Merry at table, or in a game of chess, or in some conversation beneath the shade of a pavilion.

But she was still uncomfortable around Frodo and Sam. Pippin had introduced them the very day that Boromir had left for Minas Tirith, and she'd already been feeling lost and uncertain; she couldn't tell if Frodo's reserve was something she should take personally or not, and Sam seemed to always follow his master's lead.

And now here they were, she and Frodo. Merry and Pippin had wanted to spend the afternoon fishing, and when Sam had left on an errand he'd asked Maggie if she'd stay with Frodo, who had drifted into an untroubled sleep. She'd agreed, of course, having nothing else to do, and had sat in the cool of the tent, half-dozing herself, until she heard him stirring. She sat up in her chair, and when he opened his eyes, she smiled at him.

"Where's Sam?" he asked, and she told him. He nodded, and said, "Well, I suppose I should wait for him. He'll fret so if he comes back and finds me gone."

There was an awkward silence for a time, and finally Maggie had said, "So, tell me about the Shire."

A simple question, she thought. One that would draw him out, and leave her off the hook for doing much of the talking herself.

But his quick smile was followed just as quickly by a soft shadow crossing his face, and he murmured, almost to himself, "The Shire... I do miss it. But I wonder if it will ever be my Shire again."

He didn't continue, and after a moment she asked gently, "What do you mean?"

He gave a little laugh, and looked at her with eyes that were much too old. "Do you ever feel," he said thoughtfully, "that you've gone far too far away from home to ever find your way back, even if you go there and live there the rest of your days?"

Feeling her heart clench, she glanced away and nodded. "Yes, I do."

"Then you know what I mean," he said, then took her hand in his and held it gently while he talked about Bag-end, and Hobbiton, and Bilbo, and about Samwise and his Gaffer, and all the families and homes of the Shire, but that sense of longing and distance never seemed to leave his voice, all the time he talked.

"Oh, my lady," he said with a sigh at last. "All the things I've done, the things I've seen. And my - my failures. I do not think that I can ever go home again, truly."

She shook her head, her brow furrowing. "Failures, Mister Baggins," she began, and he chuckled and said, "Call me Frodo, please, and I shall call you Maggie?" She smiled, and nodded, and said, "Yes, I'd like that. But Frodo, you and Boromir both talk about these terrible failures, and I - I don't understand." He didn't answer, but didn't let go of her hand, so she continued, "I know it's not my place, and I know I can never know what you went through, but -" and she hesitated, then said softly, "maybe you put it on at the end, but no one else could have gotten it there."

"And if not for Gollum," said Frodo, but he didn't finish the thought.

"If not for Gollum," said Maggie, "Sam would have saved you." She turned to face him more fully, taking both his hands in hers. "Frodo," she said, and he met her gaze. "Only you could have gotten the Ring to Mount Doom. Sam got there because of _you_. Hell," she said, "so did Gollum. And if Gollum hadn't done what he did, Sam would have found a way, but you didn't fail. You didn't." She shook her head again and glanced away, then back at the Ringbearer's drawn face, wishing she could say anything that would take that sense of sadness away from him. "I know it doesn't help," she said. "I know it doesn't make anything better, but you didn't fail. You won. You just needed a little help."

He laughed softly and squeezed her hands. "I claimed the Ring, and when Gollum tore it from me and Sam needed me to rise, I despaired."

"But then you rose," she whispered. "And you went with him."

"Aye, you did," came Sam's voice from the doorway to the tent, and they both looked up. He entered and sat down on Frodo's other side, his eyes flickering once over Maggie before turning to Frodo. "Come now, Mister Frodo," he said, and Maggie felt suddenly uncertain, as though she'd intruded, and gently reclaimed her hands when Sam placed his on Frodo's. "You mustn't talk like that," he said. "All's well now, and we'll be going home soon. Back to Bag-end, where you can rest."

Maggie sat quietly as the two of them talked, and felt a bitter shroud blanket her heart as Sam spoke gently of going home, and of the peace they would find there. She didn't know that Frodo was going to find peace anywhere, and she didn't know that she would, either. She couldn't imagine what home would feel like. Could she go back there? Could she go home? And if she did, what then?

She knew, though. Sam's and Frodo's voices drifted over her, and she leaned back and closed her eyes. If they could get rid of Sorrow, that wouldn't undo his work of the last 90 years. Their world was so damaged, she didn't know if it could be rebuilt. If it could, it would still be the work of decades - maybe more years than it had taken to wreck it. And she was one person.

One person.

One tired, heartsore person. And she would be alone.

'Not alone,' she thought irritably to herself. Mira would be there, and Jack, and Paul, and Greg. Michael and his group, and this Mr. Coleman who'd sold them the weapons they'd taken to the Black Gate - he seemed to have some interest.

But no one would be there at three in the morning. In the darkest part of her nights, she'd be alone.

Her world didn't need her that badly.


End file.
